Everything is New
by Mitch82
Summary: The boys deal with what really happened at the Mystery Spot, and with Dean's crossroads deal. Wincest.
1. Reality

A/N: A nice little plot idea came to me, and when I started writing, it was suddenly not so little. More chapters are coming. Enjoy!

Spoilers: Everything up to Mystery Spot from season 3, and eventually the end of season 3.

* * *

_Strong arms squeezing Dean's shoulders in a crushing embrace as a flushed face presses tightly against his ear. He patiently allows it._

"_Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?" he asks._

_His brother utters one weary word in reply._

"_Enough."_

* * *

A week had gone by since their misadventure at the Mystery Spot, and Dean knew that something wasn't right. It could be the fact that Sam was quieter than usual. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. They spent every waking minute together so it was understandable that from time to time, they simply ran out of things to say. It could be the fact that the few times Dean joked about the Mystery Spot, usually using the term as a crude sexual reference to the female anatomy, rather than laughing or even rolling his eyes, Sam would tighten his lips and look away. But Sam was a prude, so that didn't mean much either.

The real reason that Dean felt that things were wrong was not something that he could readily explain because he had no physical evidence of it, and that scared him. That meant that it was instinct or intuition trying to tell him something, and he couldn't remember the last time his instincts were wrong. Every night since they left the crazy little town of Broward, Florida, he had had trouble sleeping. He kept feeling like he was being watched.

It was on the seventh consecutive night of feeling this feeling, that he opened his eyes and peered through the darkness of the motel room to see the silhouette of his little brother sitting up in the next bed and staring at him.

"Sammy?" Dean asked groggily.

"Hmm," Sam breathed.

Dean put his head back on his pillow with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. "You're dreaming, kiddo. Lay down, okay?"

The room was totally silent for a few moments. Then Dean let out another breath as Sam finally lay down with a soft rustling of the sheets.

"'Night, Sam," he said.

Sam didn't answer.

* * *

Another few days went by with no leads. Dean couldn't tell if they were going through the biggest dry spell of their supernatural careers or if Sam wasn't really trying that hard to find the next job. They had temporarily settled themselves in a small town in Maine, and the snowy February weather was a shocking transition from the humidity of Florida. The cold leant itself to hibernation, and Dean was beginning to feel a bit antsy about the slower pace their lives had taken, but he still had that sense that Sam was on the verge of breaking, so he didn't push it. They spent their days wandering around the town, eating, or channel surfing in their motel room, mostly in silence, and Dean continued to have that strange feeling of being watched each night as he slept.

He was beginning to wonder what happened during the time loop that he couldn't remember. To him, it was as if only one day had gone by, and he certainly didn't remember any of the times he had supposedly been killed. But whatever it was, Sam clearly needed some quiet time to deal with things. And to Dean's surprise, he started relaxing into the break. He had less than a year to live unless they found a way to get him out of his crossroads deal, so why not spend a little extra time relaxing and taking it easy?

Towards the end of their second week in town, Dean dosed off in the middle of an episode of _Cheers_, and when he woke up again, the TV and the lights had been turned off. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand to see how much time had passed, and he jumped slightly as he saw Sam's silhouette sitting up in bed again, staring at him quietly.

"Sammy?"

"You died," Sam said almost inaudibly.

"Yeah, sorry. _Cheers_ never really did much for me. I guess I fell asleep."

"No," Sam said. "At the Mystery Spot."

Dean realized that Sam was finally ready to start talking, so he sat up in bed and stretched his arms as he yawned softly. "I know I died, Sam. I'm sorry you had to go through that. But I'm okay now."

Sam didn't answer.

"It was only one day," Dean attempted, then immediately felt like an idiot. It was one day for _him_, not for Sam.

"Six months," Sam whispered.

"Huh?"

"The last time that you died," he went on, "you stayed dead. For six months."

Dean's heart dropped and he turned sideways on his bed so he could rest his feet on the floor. He was now face to face with Sam, but in the darkness he could barely make out any features. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The slant of Sam's shoulders was rigid in the dim light, and his voice sounded just as strained. "The Trickster," he said, pronouncing the name carefully, "said he wanted to teach me a lesson. To show me what it would be like once you're gone."

More silence rolled through as Dean sat with his mouth hanging open. He had no words.

"He made me think you died, and then he let me go on in that reality for six months. Alone." Deep breath. "Or maybe that _was_ reality and he has the power to reverse it or something. I don't know."

"That one day for me lasted _six months_ for you?" Dean asked in horror.

"More like a year," Sam corrected. "I lived Tuesday over a hundred times, and then time went on for another half year after that before he let me come back."

Dean's shock transformed to sadness, then to compassion, and then to blinding rage. "Did you kill him?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"I tried," Sam answered weakly.

Dean turned on the bedside lamp as he stood up and stormed over to the table to grab his bag. "That motherfucker is so fucking dead," he hissed.

"Please don't leave me again!" Sam blurted, bolting into a standing position.

As Dean turned around to argue, he was stricken by the look of Sam's face in the lamplight. He realized that in the last couple of weeks he hadn't really taken a good look at his brother since they really weren't communicating much anyway, but now that he was paying attention, the fear and the exhaustion imprinted on Sam's features were glaring. Six months. Jesus. Had Sammy aged six months in one day? Had he aged a year? It looked like it.

"Sammy, we can't let him live."

"We can't kill him, Dean," Sam argued. "He's too smart."

"Sam—"

"I can't go through that again, Dean," he whispered through a choke of a sob. "_Please_."

Dean's heart broke at the look in Sam's eyes. He put his bag down on the table and walked back between the beds where he stood face to face with his brother. With gentle hands, he urged Sam to sit back down, and Dean sat down across from him again. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"It was bad enough to live through," Sam said. "I wanted to forget. And I didn't want you to worry."

"Well, you failed on both counts," Dean replied, shaking his head. "Sam. You should have told me. How am I supposed to protect you if I don't know what's going on?"

"I know," Sam answered, bowing his head in shame.

"Hey," Dean said, reaching across to put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm not mad."

"I know," Sam repeated. But he kept his head bowed and his slumped shoulders made him look tired beyond belief.

"Tell you what," Dean said. "Why don't we take a little sleeping potion and talk about this when we're more awake?"

He reached down to the floor where he had tossed his jeans and pulled a small flask out of the pocket. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig of whiskey, then passed it to his brother. Sam took a long drink of his own, and his eyes immediately began to droop with the effects of the alcohol.

"Thanks, Dean," he said, and damned if he didn't sound just like he did when they were little. Big brother always knew how to fix things.

Or at least he used to.

"Lay down, kid," Dean said, turning off the lamp and lying down in his own bed. "I'll be here when you wake up, and we can talk then, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam whispered.

* * *

But they didn't talk about it the next day. Sam needed more time to process his thoughts, and Dean suddenly needed the same thing. A million thoughts were now running through his mind now that he knew the truth. Was the Trickster capable of performing a six-month illusion? Or had he actually been able to reverse reality? And if that was the case, did that mean that in some way, Dean had actually already died and gone to hell? He shivered at the thought.

But he and Sam kept their thoughts to themselves the whole next day, and as they turned in for the night, Dean wordlessly shared another shot of whiskey with his brother. The lights went out and he fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

He woke up in the middle of the night again to find that Sam was actually kneeling on the floor next to his bed, looking down at him.

"Sam, come on," he moaned. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"At night I can't remember where I am. Which place is real and which is a dream. I… I have to make sure that you're really here."

"Well, here I am," Dean offered lamely.

In what little moonlight was able to stream through the curtains, Dean could see a loneliness in Sam's expression that was beyond anything he could comprehend. It was as if he was pleading with Dean, but he couldn't find the words.

"All right," Dean conceded. "Get in."

"What?"

Dean pulled his blankets up and patted the mattress next to him. "Get in."

"Dean…"

"No, Sam, I'm serious. If you're having trouble sleeping because you're afraid I'll go away, maybe rolling into me all night long will help." Dean patted the mattress again. "Get in."

Sam breathed a grateful sigh and climbed into bed next to his big brother. Dean threw the blanket over him and offered him the extra pillow. Sam lay down on his side facing Dean, and Dean lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He reached to his left where he had begun habitually keeping his flask for when Sam couldn't sleep, which was every night, and he lifted Sam's head slightly.

"Open," he said, and Sam obeyed. He poured a small amount of whiskey into Sam's mouth, took a sip for himself, and then screwed the flask shut and put it back in its place.

"'Night, Sammy," he whispered.

"'Night, Dean," Sam whispered back.

Just as Dean began to drift off again, he felt Sam's bare foot scoot over and rest gently over his ankle.

* * *

The next day was better. They still didn't talk about anything serious, but they at least talked. They ate lunch at a nearby diner, and Dean was pleased to see that Sam at least had enough energy to make a joke or two about the small town clientele.

Things weren't normal between them by a long shot, but it was definitely better than the last couple of weeks. Still no talk of going back to hunting, but Dean didn't mind. There was something new between them that wasn't there before, a softer focus, a gentler rapport. He felt he was seeing a new side of Sam, and revealing a new side of himself. A friendlier, lighter side. A side that maybe they would have been able to explore earlier if hunting wasn't always keeping them so tense. It was nice.

That night, Dean woke up again, this time more out of habit than a sense that anything was wrong. He turned to his right expectantly, and he wasn't surprised to see Sam kneeling next to his bed again. He gave a small smile that he wasn't sure Sam could see in the darkness, and he lifted up his blankets, wordlessly patting the mattress. Sam eagerly climbed in and immediately planted his toe on Dean's ankle. As he did so, all of the tension drained out of his body with a long sigh.

And Dean had to admit, he felt his own tension draining too. He repeated their nightly ritual of feeding Sam a small drink and taking one of his own. Then he fell into another sound sleep.

* * *

Several days and nights went by in the same fashion, almost as if they were in another time loop, but one where they both got to keep their memories. And one in which they were both surprisingly content. The subject of hunting never once crossed their lips, and they spent their time eating, exploring more of the quaint little town, and deeply enjoying each other's conversation, though without any monsters to fight, their subject matter was exceptionally dull.

Dean never realized that complete and utter boredom could be so enjoyable.

And Sam's smile. He never realized Sam's bright, infectious smile could be so enjoyable either.

* * *

One night, as always, Sam waited until Dean had fallen asleep to make his way to Dean's bedside. Soon after, Dean woke up and invited Sam to bed. But this time, instead of falling right to sleep, they both lay awake for a while, Sam's foot enjoying its usual resting place on Dean's ankle.

Dean couldn't believe how good it felt to just lie there. His whole life had been about running and chasing and plotting and fighting. What a revelation it was to just be. The timelessness of just being in the moment with his brother felt more like perfection than anything he had experienced. He could feel that Sam felt the same.

He could also feel Sam grinning next to him.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked.

"How did you know?" Sam whined.

"I had a vision about it."

Sam shoved Dean in the shoulder. "Jerk."

Sam continued to smile and asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Any other day, Dean would have been totally thrown by that question. But in the context of their new way of communicating, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He had an urge to say, "You mean if I wasn't a hunter?" but he stopped himself. Somehow hunting felt like a dirty word that he didn't want to bring into the purity of this moment.

"A monster truck driver," Dean answered.

"Shut up."

"I'm serious. Or maybe a NASCAR racer."

"I thought you said NASCAR is for pussies," Sam argued.

"Well, that's because _I'm_ not there," Dean said.

"You're a dick," Sam said.

"At least I'm not a pussy," Dean replied.

Sam giggled. Dean grinned widely. He loved making Sam laugh.

"What about you? What are you gonna be?" Dean asked.

Sam was quiet for a moment as he thought about it. "A teacher," he said.

"What age?" Dean asked skeptically.

"High school. Or, no. College. Well," Sam hummed indecisively. "Never mind. Maybe I'll be a dog-sitter."

Dean laughed out loud. "You go from college professor to dog-sitter in a single bound?"

"I'm a nurturer," Sam defended.

"You're a pansy," Dean shot.

"Am not!" Sam shoved Dean hard enough to nearly knock him to the floor.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Dean reprimanded. "No roughhousing in the master bed."

But he recovered easily and slid back into position, sticking his foot slightly to the right and feeling that click of satisfaction as Sam's toe found its place once more on his ankle.

"I guess I can't really make up my mind," Sam admitted. "There's so many things I want to do. So many things that I never got…" He stopped short.

Dean felt a tension rise in his chest as he could feel Sam broaching the subject of hunting.

"Sammy…"

"Do you ever feel like we missed out on things?"

"I don't really want to talk about it."

"I mean, we have so much potential, Dean, both of us. We could have done so much with our lives."

"We _have_ done so much with our lives."

"Yeah, but…"

"But nothing, Sam," Dean said sternly. "We can't change the past, so just drop it, okay?"

Sam went silent, and his toe curled and then pulled away from Dean's ankle. Dean instantly felt guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, you're right."

"Yeah, but I'm still sorry."

Sam cleared his throat. "I guess I've just been questioning everything ever since… since…"

He didn't want to mention the Trickster again, and Dean didn't want to hear about it, so he was grateful when Sam decided not to go on. Their conversation ended then, and they both lay silently listening to each other breathe for almost an hour before finally falling asleep.

* * *

The next night, Dean woke up to the sensation of his ankle getting ravaged by an angry set of toes as Sam squirmed next to him in the throes of a nightmare.

"Sam! Wake up, Sammy!"

Sam shuddered and squealed, and then gasped as he woke with a start. "Dean!" he shrieked.

"I'm here, I'm here," Dean said. He reached out for Sam's arm, but pulled back quickly as Sam made a move as if to hit him. "Sam, it's me," he said slowly.

Sam took a few more moments to catch his breath, and as his breathing slowed down, so, finally, did Dean's heart. "Sorry," Sam whispered, plopping his head back onto the pillow.

"'S'okay," Dean responded. "You might want to cut your toenails, though. I think I'm bleeding."

It took several moments before Sam realized what Dean was talking about, and then he moaned with regret. "Oh! Dean, I'm sorry."

He reached out to Dean's chest so that he could grab his shirt to pull himself closer and touch his foot to Dean's ankle. He felt around with the bottom of his foot for any damage.

"I don't feel any open skin," Sam said worriedly. "Does it hurt?"

"No, Sam," Dean whispered, a little overwhelmed by Sam's sudden closeness. "I think I'm gonna live."

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said so earnestly that Dean couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"I'm really okay, Sam. Take a deep breath okay?"

Sam did as he was told and when he released the oxygen, his tension easily went out of him again. He and Dean had found such a natural rhythm with each other over the last weeks, that even when something upset him, it wasn't hard to get back to what had become his normal self. Balanced. Happy.

"That's my boy," Dean praised, patting Sam's hand that was still resting on his chest and clutching his shirt.

Upon Dean's touch, Sam's hand released the thin fabric, but remained where it was. And Dean's hand remained on top of Sam's.

Sam's hand felt heavy on his chest. In a good way. It felt secure. Like he was grounded to this plane of existence as long as Sam had a hold on him. Sam's physical proximity made him feel safe. And the warmth of Sam's hand on his chest… There weren't words. Comfort was the first word that came to mind, but whatever he was feeling was much more profound than that. Security? Belonging?

Ownership.

The word startled him as it presented itself, and the rightness of it startled him even more.

That was when Sam grabbed Dean's shirt again and pulled himself even closer until he was resting his head on Dean's chest, very lightly, though, as if he was checking to see if it was okay. Sam's uneven breathing gave away his nervousness.

In the hurricane of Dean's emotions, he could hardly believe it as he gently squeezed his brother's hand, indicating that he was okay with this. The weight of Sam's head on his chest grew as Sam fully relaxed into position. They both took a deep breath that took them both by surprise and let it out slowly. Dean felt dizziness sweep through him at the joy he was feeling. At least what he thought was joy. He wasn't sure he had ever really felt anything like this before. All he knew was that this felt so deeply good it was almost terrifying.

Eternal moments later, the weight of Sam's leg pressed down on Dean's leg, their inner thighs pushing together tightly, and Dean breathed in as every inch of his body came to life, including his cock. His hardness was a sensation that seemed suddenly unfamiliar to him, not only because it had been so long since it had happened, but because he had never associated this feeling with Sam before.

But maybe that was why the feeling was unfamiliar. Because until now, it had never felt so incredible.

He felt Sam's breathing become heavier against his neck, and his heart pounded in his chest. Sam's hand lowered slowly to Dean's hardening nipple, and Dean felt his torso instinctively rise into the touch.

"Ah," he breathed.

"I don't want you to leave," Sam whimpered.

"I'm not leaving," Dean responded breathlessly. "It was all an illusion, remember?"

"But your deal isn't an illusion," Sam argued. "You have less than a year, Dean."

Sam's knee bent further until the top of his thigh was touching Dean's balls, and Dean felt his whole body curve sideways with pleasure. "Fffuuu…" he stammered helplessly. "Sammy, we'll find a way, okay? We'll…"

"Dean…" Sam breathed desperately into his ear, and it was more than he could take. He reached over and grabbed Sam around the waist, forcefully pulling Sam on top of him. Sam moaned softly and let himself be taken. Then Dean pushed Sam's shoulder roughly and rolled over so that he was on top of his little brother. Yeah. This was better.

They were both breathless now, and the familiar scent of his brother drove him insane as he sniffed at Sam's mouth, is ear, his neck. He dove into Sam's lips and crushed him with a sloppy kiss. This time it was Sam whose body rose reflexively into the air and then slammed back down onto the bed as he wrapped his arms tightly around Dean and pulled him in tighter.

Sam's tongue tasted like toothpaste and whisky and sleep, all mixed in with the natural scent of Sam's body, and Dean was sure a more crave-worthy combination had never existed. As he kissed his brother deeply, attempting to taste every inch of his mouth, his hands worked frantically to touch every inch of Sam's body. He had this irrational idea that if he could just get close enough, he would be satisfied. But they were already skin to skin, so how much closer could they get without becoming one?

The images that that thought brought to mind pulled a growl out of Dean's chest, and he shot up onto his knees, slapping Sam's reaching hands away from him so that he could reach for the bottom of Sam's shirt and pull at it wildly until he had removed it from the tight flesh beneath him.

So many times he had seen Sam shirtless, and he wondered how on earth he had failed to notice the beauty of his brother's body. The crack of moonlight shining into the room bled seductively over the ridges of Sam's abdomen, the contrast of light and dark painting Sam's skin dramatically, making the dark parts seem even darker than his regular olive tone. Dean quickly pulled his own shirt off and threw it wildly behind him so that he could lie back down and touch his bare chest to Sam's.

"Oooh!" they both cried, as the warmth of each other's skin sent sparks flying through their vision. Dean honestly couldn't remember _anything_ ever feeling so good.

Sam whimpered into Dean's neck as he felt Dean reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants and lifting them up over his erection so he could pull them down his legs. Sam lifted his legs to allow the pants to clear his feet, and he laughed deliriously as Dean tossed them to the floor. His laughing increased as Dean jiggled on his knees, attempting to get his own pants off, face planting into Sam's chest as he lost his balance.

Both of them laughing harder, Sam reached down to help Dean, and when they found themselves face to face, Dean had the experience of looking his brother in the eyes. Looking his _brother_ intimately in the eyes. He felt as if the room was slowly turning on its axis as he saw this familiar face that suddenly seemed so new. Every feature was just as he remembered it, but in so many ways he felt like he was staring at a total stranger. The whole world was upside down and here he was falling in love with a stranger that he happened to have known his whole life.

In love?

Fuck.

Sam succeeded in pulling Dean's pants off, and Dean came falling back down on top of him, their naked bodies crashing together. The feeling of Sam's body against his own was so fucking _rapturous_ that Dean started thrusting against his brother's hip uncontrollably. The gasps and moans coming from beneath him only made him thrust harder and faster, and his eyes squeezed his shut as he felt Sam reach around and squeeze his ass roughly.

He fell into Sam's neck and pressed his forehead against the pillow, breathing into Sam's ear, and no longer certain whether he was thrusting or just being aggressively pulled back and forth by Sam's strong hands on his ass.

Sam muttered something in a throaty voice Dean had never heard before, and Dean leaned in closer. "Huh?" he begged.

"SSssssoooo goooood," Sam drawled as their hard cocks rubbed side to side.

"Ah, fuuuuck," Dean moaned as tension rose from his toes up to his waist, into his shoulders and neck and up to the top of his head. He felt a spark building deep within his pelvis and he knew that he was going to come soon.

But despite his frantic state of mind, his body took its sweet time building to the big moment, and he felt like five painful minutes went by as the slow burn rose to a lapping flame, and finally to a roaring fire.

He stared into Sam's eyes, and Sam stared back, newness and familiarity violently at war, and then Dean saw something deep in Sam's eyes that felt so familiar it frightened him. It was almost like he was looking at himself. Like the lifetime that they had spent together wasn't even the beginning of their knowing each other, like they had spent eternity before eternity together, and this life was nothing but a temporary dream that their spirits had chosen to play in. The love in Dean's chest was like a caged animal trying to escape, and his eyes burned as he lost his breath and felt the wetness begin to fall down his cheeks and onto Sam's face.

Sam's eyes overflowed with tears, and everything that he was too overwhelmed to express in words was evident in his face. The urgency, the grief, the need. Combinations of emotions that didn't even have names played across his face, but most of all, a love streaming straight into Dean's pupils unlike anything Dean knew was possible. He felt his own tears flow more steadily at the insatiable love that was flowing toward him from every pore of Sam's body, and a great and terrible gratitude swelled in his chest, sending his limbs into uncontrollable quaking. In his irrationality he pondered the idea that the Trickster's interference in their lives could really have been a blessing if it could lead to such intense oneness with the totality of everything that was good.

And as the sensation in his prick grew into a painful, tickling, itching, oversensitive scream, he cried his brother's name as spasms gripped his body and warm streams of come sprayed everywhere, even hitting the bottom of his own neck. He felt Sam shaking and shuddering beneath him, the unmistakable tremors of orgasm evident in his voice.

"De…" Sam whimpered.

"I know," Dean tried to say, but his voice came out in a shattered cough, and he could only bury his face back into Sam's neck and thrust his way through the explosion.

Sam thrust back, and they bounced against each other boisterously, Dean groaning as he felt Sam's fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. After another blissful span of endless seconds of feeling like his cock was the most powerful part of his body, Dean finally felt himself winding down. Their thrusts and bumps slowed to a mild rhythm as they both emptied out, and then they sighed noisily as they settled into each other's arms, their bodies fitting together uncannily well, even if their skin was slippery with sweat.

Dean lifted his head and took a peek into Sam's eyes, and the undiluted devotion that he found there sent him into fits of crying. Sam's eyes immediately went bloodshot and he sobbed as well, pulling Dean as close as he could get him. Neither could tell whose pounding heart was whose as they wept into each other's ears, and their chests rattled against one another in their conjoined meltdown. Dean bent his nose against Sam's jaw, and he marveled at how the sensation of crying as hard as he could felt like the best thing he had done in years, especially because Sam was right there with him.

They tangled closer together, limbs interlocking tightly, and they gripped each other's bodies as they cried until their heads seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.

Eventually, they both lost their breath, and their sobbing slowed. They let their breathing deepen, and in Dean's mind, he felt his reality beginning to shift. One second, he was lying next to Sam in a cheap motel room, the next second he was cuddling with his teddy bear in his childhood bed, listening to the soft and easy chatter of his mom and dad in the next room.

He couldn't decide which reality was better, so he allowed them both to be, and he let out one more grateful sob before losing consciousness with his nose against Sam's red and beautiful cheek.

Sam gripped Dean's ear and blindly stroked at his face. "Dean…" he murmured. "I've never… I've never been so…"

And then they were both asleep.


	2. Their Own World

A/N: Chapter 2! Yay! Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I hope you enjoy this installment.

Spoilers: Same as before. Up to Mystery Spot in Season 3. I'm sort of veering off in my own direction from there, but some references to the remainder of season 3 have been worked in.

* * *

They didn't know how much time had passed when they woke up, and neither of them had any inclination to look at the clock. They looked into each other's sleep swollen eyes and smiled, cuddling in closer together and sighing deeply.

"I didn't mean to leave you," Dean said, the crack in his voice betraying his emotion.

"Dean, don't."

"It kills me that you had to be alone. How is it possible that so much time passed and I didn't even know?"

"For all we know, it was all a dream. That year could have taken place over the course of one night."

"Well, I should have been there to wake you up."

He held Dean's thick arm with both hands possessively as he stared up at the random patterns in the white stucco ceiling.

"Dean?"

Dean shivered at the electrical sensations shooting through him at the sound of his name in his brother's mouth. "Yeah?"

"Everything's new," Sam whispered.

Nodding against Sam's head, Dean said, "Yeah."

"It's weird," Sam said. "I never would have seen this coming, but now that it's happened I feel like I've…" he trailed off.

"Been waiting for it my whole life," Dean finished.

Sam nodded against his chest.

Dean ran a hand over Sam's stomach.

"Oh. Hi," he said as he noticed the stickiness over Sam's abdomen. "You're all messy."

"That's mostly your fault," Sam accused.

"It builds up when I haven't used it in a while," Dean said sheepishly.

"Sick," Sam declared.

"You like it."

"Still sick."

Sam was suddenly distracted as he felt Dean's tongue sliding up the side of his neck. "We need to clean you up," Dean rasped.

"Are we cats now?" Sam asked.

"Are you into that?" Dean licked another strip up Sam's neck, much to Sam's pleasure if the curling of his toes was any indication.

"Dean, stop," he whined halfheartedly.

"Make me," Dean breathed, sticking his tongue deeply into Sam's ear and breathing out sharply as he explored. Sam shoulders rose stiffly, and his mouth hung open as he took in the sensation, somewhere between pleasure and drowning, and eventually he had the strength to grab Dean's arm.

"I thought we were going to get cleaned up?"

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"I think you're violating me. There's nothing clean about this."

"I repeat. You like it."

"Dean!" Sam pushed Dean a little more roughly and Dean backed off.

He couldn't say anymore, and Dean was only too happy to look into his eyes and decipher what was there. Over the last weeks, their nonverbal communication had become sharper than ever, and Dean rather enjoyed the fact that Sam only spoke his deepest truths and needs through his facial expressions and body language.

And if Dean wasn't mistaken, Sam needed some more physical attention.

"Let me wash you off," he whispered. The heavenly relaxation in Sam's features showed him that he had guessed it right, and he rose up onto his knees and then backed out of the bed, taking both of Sam's hands and pulling him to his feet.

With a look on his face that was half mischief and half adoration, Dean walked backwards through the motel room, easily leading Sam by both hands to the bathroom. Sam looked down into Dean's eyes, smiling all the way.

Dean peripherally noticed sunlight squeezing around the edges of the thick drapes, and he was surprisingly amused by the fact that he had no idea what time of day it was. It was like he and Sam had retreated into their own world, a world without time or toil. The relief that world brought him was heaven.

They got to the shower, and Dean planted a soft kiss on Sam's lips and touched his face reverently before turning on the water and carefully adjusting the temperature until it was just right. He reached back and took Sam's hand and put another hand on Sam's back to guide him over the edge of the tub and into the streaming hot water. He closed his eyes involuntarily at the soft, warm feel of Sam's skin.

Once Sam was in the stream, he held out a hand and helped Dean in, closing the curtain behind him. Sam stood with his back to the water and immediately began to lean in for a kiss.

"No," Dean said, putting a firm hand on Sam's chest.

"No?" Sam repeated, a little hurt.

"I…" Dean stammered. "I just want to look at you."

He internally cringed at the feeling of his face getting hot, but thankfully, Sam chose not to point it out. Instead, Sam put his hands at his sides and looked back into Dean's eyes shyly.

"Okay," he tittered.

Dean gazed into his brother's wide, vulnerable eyes, the love there nearly knocking him unconscious. He smiled happily and trailed his gazed down the slope of Sam's nose to the perfect line of his soft lips.

Down his muscular neck and over his bulging pectorals above a perfect, narrow waist and flat stomach. The V of Sam's obliques made a nice introduction to a dark patch of hair over his half hard and slowly leaking dick, and again, the combination of love and lust swimming through Dean's head and heart made him feel like he wouldn't be standing for much longer.

"Turn around," he choked.

Sam obeyed and Dean almost groaned at the muscled perfection of Sam's broad back. How had he never noticed this before? He reached out and touched Sam's shoulder blade with the tips of his finger, and Sam gasped, arching into the sensation. Dean could swear there was electricity passing between them. He almost felt tingling.

He raised his other hand to join the first, and he slowly grazed down Sam's spine, stepping closer as he did, so that he could lean forward and smell the tanned skin.

It smelled like Sam. A smell so familiar after spending so many years in such close quarters, but it was like the first time he had ever smelled it. Or at least the first time he fully understood the deliciousness of it.

He was hard as a rock by this point, and he stepped even closer so that he could slide his hands around to Sam's belly, and his upright cock fit snuggly into Sam's crack.

"Fuuuuck," Sam breathed.

"Mmm-hmm," Dean agreed, kissing first Sam's shoulder and then his neck. He ran his hands slowly up and down Sam's stomach, his fingers vibrating over the ridges of his abdomen.

"Jesus Lord, kiddo, is this a natural occurrence?" he asked indignantly.

"I've never done a crunch in my life," Sam cooed.

"Well, I'll be goddamned."

He ran his fingers down until he was touching curls of thick hair, and his eyes closed as Sam began to moan. Reaching carefully downward, he found Sam's cock and gently closed his hand around it. He felt it twitch in his grasp, and Sam's ass clenched, squeezing Dean's erection between the firm cheeks.

"Uh," Dean sputtered, his forehead slamming into Sam's shoulder.

"Uh!" Sam moaned as Dean involuntarily squeezed his cock harder. "Yeah…" he breathed.

Dean's hips began moving of their own free will, and he suddenly found himself grinding against Sam. The sensation of Sam's periodically tensing ass cheeks pulsed around his sensitive prick, and he grunted and moaned as he began pumping Sam with one hand and reaching up to tickle Sam's nipple with the other.

"Dean…" Sam begged, his body arching in every possible direction. "I… Dean, I can't… Ah…"

Dean could sense that Sammy was going into sensory overload, and he pushed his mouth up to Sam's ear.

"It's okay, little brother," he soothed. "I'm right here."

"Dean…" Sam pleaded again, the beginnings of a sob in his voice. He held Dean's hand against his chest and leaned back slightly, allowing Dean to hold him up.

"I know," Dean whispered. "I've got you."

He closed his eyes as the spray of water bounced off of Sam's chest and sprinkled over their faces. His dick was painfully over stimulated, but it felt too good to stop. He felt a burning sensation beginning deep in his balls, and he hoped that Sam was feeling the same thing. He wouldn't be able to hold off much longer, and he wasn't sure he'd stay conscious once he came.

He was relieved to feel Sam's cock twitching more and more in his hand, and the gyrations of Sam's body became even more pronounced.

"De…" Sam moaned. He squeezed Dean's other hand tightly as his breathing became fast and loud.

"Let it go, baby," Dean urged. "I'm right here."

Sam started to cry then, and his sobs fought against his gasps as his body took over.

"Just let it go," Dean repeated, and as his own orgasm exploded from within, he felt Sam's cock swell and spasm, quickly followed by the feeling of warm come running down his knuckles. His mind went totally blank of everything but pure love as he bumped against Sam's ass aggressively, his eyes filling with tears at the sound of his brother's sobbing release.

His own come shot up Sam's back and then ran back down toward his ass. As they both reached the end, Dean turned Sam around and pulled him into a tight embrace. "My Sammy," he said quietly, burying his face in Sam's neck.

Sam was weak on his feet, and he gently pushed Dean backwards until his back was resting against the wall, and Sam leaned into him, his crushing weight hot and suffocating and perfect.

They cried in each other's arms, a little less ferociously than the last time. When they calmed down again, they stepped back under the water and rubbed each other down, washing away the evidence of their deed.

Then Sam turned off the water and reached for a towel. They began to dry each other off while gorging themselves on each other's lips, and the process of getting out of the shower was extended by about ten minutes.

* * *

Sam and Dean lay tangled up in each other, their bodies steaming and fresh from the shower, and a pleasant, contented drowsiness settling in. The only light in the room came from the small amount of sunlight leaking through the curtains, and it cast a soft orange glow over everything.

"We haven't hunted in two months."

"I know that," Sam replied.

"Do you think we should get back to it?"

"Why?" he asked simply.

"Well, we can't just spend the rest of our lives in bed worshipping each other's bodies, can we?"

Sam grinned warmly at that. "Why not?" he asked.

Dean chuckled and ran a soft hand through Sam's hair. He shook his head, at a loss for an answer. "I guess I don't know why not, Sammy boy. I guess I just don't know."

He pressed his nose to the skin under Sam's ear and breathed in. "Do you _ever_ want to get back to it?" Dean tried again quietly.

"You owe me at least six months, you know."

Sam was trying to make a joke of it, but the tension in his body told another story.

"Hey," Dean whispered. "Relax. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Sam's eyes shone with relieved tears and he nodded, clinging tightly to Dean's strong arms. Dean kissed his neck and ran his fingernails up and down Sam's bicep until they both drifted off.

* * *

Sam was eying his brother across the table of their favorite diner in town. Clara, the wide-faced and bubbly waitress who called everyone "hon", set their breakfasts down in front of them.

"A little late for bacon and eggs, don't you think?" she asked with a sly wink.

Dean and Sam glanced out the window next to their table at the setting sun, and Clara emitted a boisterous giggle as the boys tried and failed to suppress a blush. She smiled a motherly smile and walked away.

It was true, they had begun keeping very strange hours. Their sex drive worked on its own schedule, and food was fast becoming the only reason they ever left the motel.

Dean took a slow sip of his coffee, slightly aware that Sam was staring, but enjoying it too much to comment.

"I want a white picket fence," Sam said suddenly, causing Dean to choke on his coffee and splutter brown droplets all over his eggs. Sam laughed.

"A warning would have been nice," Dean gagged, coughing into his napkin. "And please tell me I didn't just hear that."

"I'm sorry, Dean. You did hear it."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Sam shrugged and moved his eggs around the plate with his fork. "Look at our lives. This town is so quiet and everyone knows each other. And everyone is starting to know us, and we're welcome here."

"I still don't see how a picket fence fits into this," Dean said nervously.

Sam took a sip of his own coffee, searching for the words. "I guess I never really understood why people wanted to settle down and stay in one place forever and be boring."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Are you saying I'm boring?"

With a smile, Sam put his hand on top of Dean's. "I'm saying you're _everything_. Dean, it's not the town or a house or a white fence that I want. It's you. You are what makes this place so special for me. I could be anywhere with you and I would be totally happy."

The look on Sam's face was so earnest it was heartbreaking. And Dean didn't want to spoil it by bringing up the outside world, but he needed to. He needed to be sure exactly what Sam was suggesting.

"Would you be happy if we were still hunting?"

Sam tensed. "Dean…"

"I need to know, Sam. I need to know where you stand on this."

"I… I need more time."

"Sammy, it's been two months," Dean said. "You've had time."

He immediately regretted his harsh tone as Sam bowed his head unhappily. But it needed to be said. Truth be told, Dean was over hunting a long time ago. As soon as their father had told him that Sam could possibly turn evil, Dean had been ready to wash his hands of the whole thing. It was only his determination to save Sam, and Sam's unwillingness to stop, that had kept Dean in the business.

But Sam was the one who had lived through his own brand of hell this time around. It had to be his choice.

"Do you want to keep hunting, Sammy?" Dean asked as softly as he could.

Sam nervously played with the handle of his fork and stayed silent. Finally, he looked Dean hesitantly in the eye, and his lips trembled like he was about to get in trouble as he shook his head no.

"No?" Dean prodded.

"No," Sam confirmed.

"Okay," Dean breathed.

"But…" Sam went on. "Dean, you're still going to he—"

"It won't happen," Dean said. "I'll find a way out of it."

"What if there isn't a way?" Sam pleaded quietly.

"There is. There has to be." He took Sam's hand in both of his own. "There's no way I'm leaving you now."

"But, Dean, even if there is a way, we're gonna have to rough up some evil things to figure it out."

"Are you willing to hunt a little while longer, just until we get my soul off the hook?" Dean asked.

Sam's eyes widened. "Does that mean you're willing to _stop_ hunting once we're done?"

Dean smiled and pulsed Sam's hand. "I've been ready for years, baby boy. I was just waiting for you to say the word. Bring on the picket fence."

Sam laughed through his tears. "I'm so in love with you," he said.

"I'm in love with you too," Dean agreed. "I'm in love with my brother."

Sam smiled, rubbing his thumb over the back of Dean's hand.

"I really can't believe I just said that," Dean added.

"Who'd have thunk it, huh?" Sam nodded.

"I mean, it's kind of funny. I would have laughed at anyone who said we'd end up like this," Dean said.

"Or broke their nose," Sam amended.

"Or broke their nose," Dean agreed, nodding. "But now that it's happened, it seems like it was sort of…"

"Inevitable," Sam finished.

"Yeah."

"Well, I guess it was meant to be. I mean, who else was ever gonna love you?" Sam grinned mischievously, but his face turned serious as Dean squeezed his hand painfully. "Ow, ow, ow! I take it back, Dean! Ow! Uncle!"

Dean released his grip, and went back to gently stroking Sam's fingers. "Yup," he said. "You're the luckiest guy in the world, huh?"

"Definitely," Sam drawled. "You're a real peach."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

They giggled at the new flavor of their old joke under the enhanced context of their relationship. As Dean thought back to the way things used to be, he couldn't help but realize how flirtatious their banter had always been, even if they had never noticed it before.

"Have we been in love with each other all this time without even knowing it?"

"I think maybe we have," Sam answered.

Dean shook his head. "Wow."

"Yeah."

Dean raised his coffee mug in a toast. "To waking up."

Sam raised his own mug. "Waking up," he repeated, and their mugs clinked.

* * *

The clock radio spouted ungodly music and Sam's eyes shot open in fear. He looked over at the clock to see the ominous digital numbers reading 6:00 AM, bright and red like blood or hellfire, and he was alone in the bed. It was the first time he had woken up alone in weeks.

And this music…

Was it Tuesday again?

"_DEAN!_" he shrieked.

He jumped as something slammed across the room, and then Dean shot like a bullet out of the bathroom, foamy toothbrush sticking haphazardly out of his mouth. "Oh, shit!" he said. "Sorry, Sammy!"

He ran over to the bed and clicked off the radio. "I set that last night, but then I realized I had a quieter alarm on my phone, so—"

"Where do you have to be?" Sam asked tearfully.

"Well," Dean rambled on, absently brushing his teeth as he spoke, "I was hoping to keep it a surprise, but since I ruined any chance of that, I wanted to get up early and grab some sweet rolls or coffee or something so I could bring them back and…"

He trailed off as he finally got a look at the petrified stare on Sam's face.

"Sammy?"

Sam crumbled into his own lap, crying into his hands.

"Hey!" Dean said, sitting next to Sam and pulling him into his arms. "Hey, baby boy, what's wrong?"

"I thought…" Sam wept. "I thought that…"

He couldn't speak anymore, but he didn't need to. It dawned on Dean what was going on. How could he be so stupid?

"Oh, my God, Sammy, I am so sorry." He pulled Sam even closer, then noticed the ridiculousness of his damn toothbrush still sticking out of his mouth. He pulled away long enough to drop the toothbrush into a plastic cup at the bedside and spit. Then he wiped his mouth with his arm and came back to his brother.

There was nothing he could say, and he knew Sam well enough to know that what he really needed now was to be held as tightly as possible, so that's what he did. He brought his legs up onto the bed so that as much of his body was touching Sam as he could manage, and eventually, Sam was a shaking ball curled up between Dean's legs.

Dean had hoped that Sam was further along in his emotional recovery than this. He had no idea that such fragility still resided beneath Sam's happy exterior. What little he knew of psychology told him that Sam had never really fully expressed his feelings over everything that had happened, and that now it was finally spilling over. But given the state of Sam, the fact that he was crying so hard that Dean feared for his ability to continue breathing, Dean suspected that this might be the whole package. That Sam had maybe never fully expressed his grief over _any_ of the shitty things that had happened to him, and that goddamn clock radio had been the tipping point. And while Dean knew well the value of a good old-fashioned cathartic breakdown, he was _literally_ afraid for Sam's oxygen intake. There had to be a way to let this emotion out a little more slowly, so Sam wasn't just left out to bleed like Jesus at Gethsemane.

The analogy struck Dean as extremely odd, and it inspired an idea within him. He lowered his mouth to Sam's damp and sweating ear, and he gripped Sam's chest tightly as he began to sing in a low, uncertain voice.

_"Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war_

_With the cross of Jesus going on before._

_Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe;_

_Forward into battle see his banners go."_

Sam's hysteria diminished by a small degree, and Dean continued to sing.

_"At the sign of triumph Satan's host doth flee;_

_On, then, Christian soldiers, on to victory._

_Hell's foundations quiver at the shout of praise;_

_Brothers, lift your voices, loud your anthems raise."_

By the end of the second verse, Sam was mostly soothed, and he cuddled into Dean's arms with a ragged sigh. He breathed loudly through his mouth as his nose was plugged up after all the crying, and Dean helplessly held him, terrified and relieved that he had found something that worked.

Judging from the strength of Sam's grip on him, neither of them were going anywhere soon. Looked like the sweet rolls were a no go this morning.

* * *

Dean lay on his back and Sam was half sprawled across him, face deep in Dean's neck and arm over his stomach. Their damp, naked skin pressed together in dozens of different places as they caught their breath from another amazing round of orgasms.

Dean ran his fingertips up and down Sam's back, starting at the base of his neck and ending just below his ass, enjoying every inch of smooth skin and tight muscle, only to repeat the process again and again. He grinned with his eyes closed every time he accidentally brushed against one of Sam's ticklish spots, causing Sam to twitch and gasp softly.

But when Dean's exploration became more focused on only his brother's ass, Sam's twitching turned into a more graceful arching as he relaxed into the touch. His breathing became slow and careful as Dean's fingers moved closer and closer to the crack, and when they got there, he stroked up and down it a few times, so very lightly that he could easily have imagined the puckered muscle in the center if not for another of Sam's twitches telling him he had really touched it.

They hadn't explored this yet. Dean was nervous. But he couldn't stop stroking, couldn't take his hand away from the sensitive area that with the slightest pressure had Sam reacting so powerfully.

Dean cleared his throat. "Um… have you ever…" he was too embarrassed to finish.

Sam shook his head. "No. You?"

Dean shook his head. "Thought about it a couple of times," he added. "With a woman, I mean. Obviously. But… no."

He kept his repetitive movement going, his curiosity and his arousal in a race to drive him mad, but he fought the urge to increase the pressure on Sam's body. Sam was his sweet baby boy, and he was determined to take it slow. Even if that was the most un-Dean thing he had ever thought.

"Is it…" Dean went on, "is it weird of me to… I mean, if I wanted to…" He sighed. "I want to," he finished.

Sam didn't respond immediately, and Dean immediately began to defend his statement.

"I mean, not in like a gross way," he stuttered. "'Cause, you know, every time I wanted to with a woman, it was more like a kinky sexual thing, and that's not this at all."

"Dean."

"I mean, not that I wouldn't go kinky for you, 'cause I'd do anything for you, but it's because of how special you are and not because I think you're an object or anything."

"Dean."

"And I guess I always thought guys who want to do this together are… like, whatever, you know? I mean, it's their life and who cares, but I really never understood the impetus, and maybe I thought it seemed a little gross, but that was then, 'cause now, Sammy, _now_ I see things so differently, and I think I can kind of understand—Ah!"

He gasped as a firm hand planted itself around his shaft and began to jerk him off. He went from half hard to fully erect in record time, and he was involuntarily squirming on the bed as Sam worked his magic.

"Sammy…" he whispered helplessly.

"It's not weird that you want to explore, Dean," Sam said into his ear soothingly.

"No?" Dean moaned doubtfully, closing his eyes in pleasure.

"No," Sam assured him. "I've been thinking about it too."

"Aaaaah," Dean sighed as Sam's pumping picked up speed.

"And I'm not sure I'm ready just yet," Sam said sweetly, "but you'll be the first to know when I am. I promise."

"Mmkay," Dean breathed. Sam's thumb began rubbing gentle circles over the tip of Dean's already sensitive prick, and he heard himself whine through the exquisite torture.

"And I know you don't see me as an object, so don't worry about that either," Sam whispered.

"I just want to make love to you," Dean murmured with a trembling voice, the stimulation of his cock combined with the emotion in his heart bringing unbidden tears to his eyes. Damn. He'd have to remind himself to be embarrassed later.

"You're such a good big brother," Sam replied, a soft gravelly edge to his voice that injected just a hint of base sexuality into his otherwise genuine tone, and that hit of lust was all Dean needed to send him over the edge.

His hips rose into the air and bounced back down onto the bed several times, Sam tightly holding his dick the whole time, and he rode through his second orgasm in only ten minutes. His spray wasn't quite as strong this time, and the fatigue he was already feeling from their last go around brought him even deeper into emotional chaos. He didn't have the energy to fight it at this point, so he let the sobs come out of his pursed lips in sputters as he shut his eyes tight, squeezing tears out of the corners.

"I'm right here," Sam whispered in his ear, the weight of his body like an anchor holding Dean to the earth.

"Sammy," Dean cried.

He didn't want to die. He couldn't find the words to articulate it right now, but he was terrified. He didn't want to leave Sam, leave Sam's wonderful touch, Sam's love. Being separated from his Sammy now was a hell that Dean feared even more than hell itself.

"We'll figure it out," Sam whispered, knowing exactly what Dean was thinking. "I love you so much, big brother."

Dean nodded, too tearful to speak.

"I'm never gonna let you go," Sam said.

The convulsing finally ended, and Dean settled back into the bed and into Sam's arms where he held his breath fiercely against his crying.

"Let it out," Sam said, stroking Dean's face. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean took another deep breath and held it in, shaking his head. He kept his eyes shut when he felt the bed shift as Sam reached over him to the edge of the mattress. Then he heard the familiar sound of a metal cap unscrewing. Sam's hand slipped beneath Dean's head and lifted it slightly.

"Open," Sam commanded quietly.

He obeyed, opening his mouth as Sam put the cool flask to his lips and gently poured. The whiskey was room temperature, but the alcohol still burned, and Dean swallowed it gratefully. He could feel himself calming down already, and he breathed a sigh of relief as Sam dabbed the tears away from his cheeks.

"I love you, Dean," Sam said, resting his head once more on Dean's shoulder.

Dean nodded. "Love… Sammy," he murmured drowsily.


	3. Perfect Team

A/N: I promise that even when my progress is slow, I'm always thinking about this story, and more is definitely coming. Let me know what you think of the latest installment!

* * *

"Where the hell did you learn that song?"

Dean glanced over at Sam in the passenger seat, eyes wide with surprise. "It speaks!" he declared with mock amazement.

"Shut up," Sam said.

"I will!" Dean went on. "This is a rare occasion to behold, Sam Winchester breaking his two-hour silence!"

"You've been quiet for the last two hours too!" Sam defended childishly.

"That's because I finally gave up on trying to get you talking. Mute Boy."

Sam looked out his window at the passing scenery, more tall pines and distant mountains, just like it had been for the last two hours. At first it had been beautiful, but now it was just tedious.

"There's nothing to talk about," Sam whined. "You won't tell me where we're going and you won't give me any hints…"

"Because you're too smart, Sam, you'll figure it out."

"So just freaking tell me!" Sam yelled.

"No!" Dean yelled back. Then he quickly recovered, putting a soft hand on Sam's thigh. "I mean… it's a surprise, apple cake," he said in his most seductive voice.

Sam slapped his hand away. "So now you know why I don't have anything to say. And that is _not_ going to be my pet name."

Dean held back a laugh. He had been trying out several nicknames for Sam over the last couple of days, and they only got more ridiculous as he realized what a rise he was able to get out of his brother. Sam sighed heavily and leaned his head against the window.

"Did you say something about a song?" Dean asked.

"Forget it."

"No, Sammy, please. Don't banish me to the Impala of Silence again. I'm begging you. I can't go that long without some kind of interaction."

His tone was light and humorous, but an almost undetectable edge crept into his voice as he said it. Ever since making the deal to save Sam's life, effectively signing his own damnation warrant, he had become deeply uneasy with the sensation of being alone. And when Sam went through one of his quiet spells, Dean felt even lonelier than if he had actually been by himself. Especially after all they'd been through recently. He felt closer to Sam than ever, so it made him crazy when Sam just clammed up.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Sam decided to start talking. He couldn't tell if Sam had heard the quiet desperation in his voice, but if he had, he thankfully didn't mention it.

"The other day," Sam tried again. "When I was… when I woke up and thought…"

Dean's hand instinctively found its way back to Sam's thigh, and this time Sam let it stay there. Dean squeezed the muscled limb encouragingly.

"You sang to me," Sam whispered, a smile evident in his words even though Dean wasn't looking directly at him.

Dean began to smile too, a little embarrassed. "I forgot about that," he said, clearing his throat.

"Where did you learn that song?" Sam asked shyly.

Several more meters of snow-dusted pine trees rolled by as Dean went back into his memory, trying to remember what song it had even been.

"_Onward Christian Soldiers_," Dean said with a chuckle. "Wow. I can't believe I remembered the words."

"I can't believe you were able to sing it without getting struck by lightning," Sam quipped. Then, "Ow, ow! It was a joke!" he laughed as Dean's hand squeezed his leg painfully. But Dean quickly let go and stuck his tongue out sideways. "I'm serious, Dean. Where did you learn it?"

With a quiet breath out, Dean diffused his focus on the road so he could see the snowcapped mountains in the distance. He stared thoughtfully before responding.

"Dad taught it to me," he said.

Silence from Sam's side of the car as his mouth hung open in shock. Then he laughed nervously. "Bullshit. Where did you _really_ learn it?"

Dean looked at Sam seriously and pursed his lips, indicating that he was telling the truth. "I mean it, Sam. It was a long time ago, when Mom was still alive. You were just born."

Another silence from Sam. "Really?" he asked quietly. Dean nodded. "I didn't know Dad was religious."

"He wasn't," Dean responded. "One night after dinner, we were all in the living room. Mom and Dad were playing Yahtzee or something, you were lying in your swing, and I was playing around with my toy guns, breaking nearly every decoration we owned."

Sam laughed quietly. "Sounds about right."

"Mom was starting to freak out from all the noise I was making, so Dad decided to lighten the mood by singing that song, saying that I was their little Christian soldier. And because neither Mom nor Dad had a religious bone in their body, Mom thought that was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. But I liked the song, so I made him teach it to me." He was quiet for a moment, once more thoughtfully gazing at the mountains. "It's kind of spooky how things turned out not longer after that, huh?"

It wasn't until he glanced over again that he realized Sam had grabbed hold of his hand. And that Sam was holding back tears.

"Baby, I'm sorry," Dean soothed. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's okay," Sam whispered through trembling lips. "That's a really nice memory. I'm glad I know about it now."

"But?"

Sam shook his head, then gave in when Dean squeezed his hand. "I wish I had memories of Mom and Dad like that. Even just one."

Dean's instinct was to say something to make his brother feel better. But he couldn't think of anything that didn't sound unfeeling and completely trite. There really wasn't anything to say. Sam had been robbed of the chance to know a real family and nothing could change that.

So instead of trying to talk Sam out of what he was feeling, Dean simply brought Sam's hand to his mouth and gently kissed the back of it in three places, then held it to his heart. He hoped that Sam could feel even a fraction of the love there because at the moment, Dean was overwhelmed by it. He wanted to cry from the waves of devotion that were crashing through him, but he held it together so he could be strong for his brother.

Sam cried openly, but not loudly, which was almost harder for Dean to bear. At least when Sam had totally lost it, Dean went into emergency mode and intuitively knew what to do. But this time, Sam's emotion was much less frantic. This time he was really, genuinely sad, and Dean couldn't help but see the little boy his brother used to be, the one that used to cry so easily before the wretched life they lived had hardened him up.

"I know, Sammy," Dean whispered helplessly, holding back his own sobs. "I know."

* * *

"Here we are!" Dean declared, killing the engine.

"Where?" Sam asked in confusion.

"Here!" Dean replied happily.

Sam looked out the window only to find that not much had changed. Trees everywhere, mountains slightly less distant, and half melted snow creating a generous helping of thick mud everywhere in sight.

"Okay, Dean. I give up. I don't get the joke."

Dean looked hurt. "No joke, Sammy. This is your surprise."

"_What_ is my surprise? I don't even know where we are!"

"We're in the mountains!" Dean said as if that should be obvious. "We're going camping!"

Sam's eyebrows rose an inch. "Huh?"

"I thought it would be a fun adventure for us," Dean justified. "Just like when we were little."

Sam's eyebrows rose another inch.

"Well," Dean went on sheepishly, "that is, if we had ever actually done normal things like camping when we were little." He chuckled nervously. "But hey, we're making up for lost time."

Looking around at the worrisome wetness of the landscape, Sam attempted to speak gently. "Did you at least bring a tent?" he asked.

Dean scoffed. "Sam Winchester. Do you think I'm a total idiot?"

Sam bit his tongue.

"Of _course_ I brought a tent!" Dean exploded. "Who goes camping without a tent? That's one of the best parts!"

"Because you would know, right?" Sam inserted.

"All right, you know what? Just forget it." Dean reached down and turned the key, gunning the gas pedal and firing the engine back to life. "If this is what I get for trying to make you happy…"

"Oh, come on, Dean, stop!" Sam reversed the key, silencing the engine. "I didn't mean to be rude. I'm sorry."

"Well, you're obviously not into this, so let's just turn around and…"

"No!" Sam argued. "No, we are not turning around. If I have to spend another two and a half hours in the car, my legs are going to dry up and fall off. No. We're staying."

"Yeah?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Sam said with a sigh. "But if we get eaten by a bear, it's on your head."

Dean laughed. "Bears," he said doubtfully.

"You looked this area up before we came, right? To make sure that it's safe for camping?"

After a slight hesitation, Dean nodded emphatically. "Yup. Yeah, of course. I'm a regular boy scout."

Sam looked into his brother's eyes wearily, then back out the window. "We're gonna die out here," he said flatly.

* * *

"Goddamn motherfucking shit-licking asswipe of a crack whore son of a bitch in heat!"

"Dean, enough!"

"Fuck!"

Dean's curses bounced off of the nearby rock faces as Sam forcibly removed the crumpled up tent from his brother's hands.

"Easy assembly, my white ass!" Dean seethed at the tent.

"Dean, you need a time out."

"I need to kill whoever manufactured that defective piece of shit is what I need to do!"

Sam put two firm hands on Dean's shoulders and held him in place. "Dean? If you don't calm down, you'll destroy the tent entirely and then we'll have to sleep in the mud."

"I'm sleeping in the mud anyway," Dean grumbled. "I won't grace that ungodly thing with my presence. I have principles, you know."

"I know you do. I know," Sam placated. "Why don't you give me a turn and you go build a fire? The sun is setting and it's going to be freezing before too long."

Dean laughed skeptically. "Well, good luck," he said as he stormed over to the car to get the fire supplies. Sam watched him open the trunk and angrily gather several logs of firewood and some matches and gasoline.

Then Sam looked around the little clearing they had found near the shoulder of the road. Amid the mud they had been lucky enough to find this area that had been mostly protected from the wetness by the surrounding trees. It wasn't perfect, but it was livable. Dean began to stack the logs, still muttering grumpily under his breath, and Sam suppressed a laugh. Despite Dean's battle with the two-man tent, and despite Sam's initial misgivings about this adventure, he had to admit this was starting to become fun. He was sure Dean would feel the same way once he had the fire built and was able to get a couple beers in his bloodstream.

Sam knelt down to begin erecting the tent, and his mathematical mind immediately saw how it was supposed to be done. But being the good brother that he was, he took his precious time, not wanting to make Dean even angrier by building the tent in 30 seconds when Dean couldn't do it in 20 minutes. Sometimes he wondered how Dean ever got by without him.

And how he would ever get by without Dean.

He glanced over again to see a smirk of satisfaction dancing over Dean's lips as he easily brought the fire to an admirable roar.

_That's my guy_, Sam thought as butterflies hatched in his stomach. God, Dean was so sexy with that little smile of his.

Dean seemed to sense that he was being watched, and he took a peek over at Sam. Their eyes locked, and even after all they had shared, they were still a little embarrassed at being caught looking. They noticed each other's shyness and laughed, then settled into the eye contact more comfortably. Neither had ever been this open with another person. Neither had ever shown their feelings so brazenly. It was wonderful.

And it scared them both to death.

Dean was the first to break the moment as he glanced over at the fully constructed tent. "Wow," he whistled.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess it just takes a second pair of eyes," Sam shrugged humbly.

"Or a pair of eyes that doesn't belong to a complete moron," Dean said.

"You're not a moron, Dean. Look how fast you built that fire. I couldn't do that."

Sam walked to where Dean was still kneeling down and put a hand on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of the flames that contrasted the deepening chill of the twilight air. Dean leaned his cheek sweetly against Sam's thigh, causing Sam's heart to fill up with wet, sloppy love.

"We're a perfect team," Dean said.

"I've always thought so."

"So what now?"

Sam looked from the fire to the tent to his brother. "Looks like we're settled in. So it's time to start the fun. Did you bring the beer?"

Dean looked pointedly at Sam. "Did I bring the beer?" he asked with annoyance. "Who do you think you're talking to, little brother?"

* * *

They sat side by side in low-to-the-ground camp chairs, beers resting snugly in the handy cup holder armrests, both boys stuffing their faces with fire-roasted, tender, juicy pork loin off of paper plates in their laps.

"This is unbelievable," Sam said with his mouth full.

Dean reached out to wipe a small dribble of honey mustard from the corner of Sam's lip, then brought his thumb to his own mouth and tasted it. "You got that right."

Sam smiled, bumping his knee against Dean's.

"How did you do this? You've never cooked a meal in your life."

"Have too," Dean argued, taking another huge bite of meat.

"Let me rephrase," Sam said. "You've never cooked a meal without burning down a building in your life."

"Hey, I didn't burn down the whole building. It was just the one motel room."

"One and a half," Sam added.

"It's not like anyone was in the next room," Dean shot back.

"Lucky for you. Do you remember the look on Dad's face?"

Dean laughed. "I'm still amazed that he believed our story about it being some kind of fire demon."

"He didn't!" Sam cried. "He just wanted to get us out of there before the cops showed up and took us in!"

"Well, at least he didn't tan our hides."

"Yeah, for once."

They took a few more grateful bites of their delicious dinner and washed it down with a long drink of their dark beer, brewed locally in Maine.

"Mmm!" Dean exclaimed. "If I'd known Maine was sitting on this gold mine, I'd have come here years ago!"

Sam nodded in agreement. "But really. Where did the pork come from?"

"I killed it myself," Dean grinned. "Nothing's too good for my Sammy."

He leaned in to steal a kiss, but Sam stopped him with a finger on his lips. "Dean?"

Dean sighed in acquiescence. "I enlisted Clara's help."

"Diner Clara?"

"No, leprechaun Clara," Dean drawled. "Of course diner Clara! I told her what I was planning and that I needed something extra special for my little snicker doodle."

He leaned a second time to kiss Sam, and this time Sam planted his palm on Dean's forehead and forcefully pushed him away.

"Snicker doodle?" Sam spat. "I think the fuck not."

"Come on!" Dean laughed. "It's cute!"

"Cute like a kick in the balls," Sam said taking another swig of beer.

"Ouch!" Dean laughed hard.

"So… Clara knows about us?" Sam asked cautiously.

"Well, she doesn't _know_ about us," Dean said. "But she could hardly miss the fact that we're an item with the way we eye-fuck each other every time eat at the diner."

Sam snorted and held his hand to his mouth to keep the beer from spilling out. "You're such a jackass."

"You know I'm right."

Regaining some of his control, Sam breathed deeply and swallowed his beer. "I like it."

"You like that I'm a jackass?"

"I like that Clara knows. I like that she's our friend. It feels… it sort of feels like we're putting down roots, you know? Building a life."

Dean picked up a stick and poked at the fire silently.

"Did I say something wrong?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "It's just… Sammy, we can't stay."

"Why?" Sam asked in a near whisper.

"We have to get me out of my deal," Dean responded.

"Well, obviously," Sam nodded. "But I mean after that…"

"Sammy…" Dean began.

"Dean, what? What's wrong?"

Abruptly Dean stood up and went to the cooler, pulling out another beer and popping the cap off before taking a loud drink. Sam stood as well, but he remained in place nervously. Dean's heart ached as he saw that old look on Sam's face, that wobbly insecurity, that expression like a child who had had his baby blanket ripped away from him.

"Dean?" he pleaded.

"I just don't want you getting too comfortable," Dean explained tightly.

"Why the hell not?" Sam burst. "We have a great thing going here. Tell me you wouldn't love to make this our permanent home base."

"Of course I would, but—"

"But nothing," Sam interrupted. "We'll leave long enough to get your situation figured out, and then we can come back and be happy."

"Sam, I don't want you getting your hopes up, okay?"

"What does _that _mean?" Sam yelled, his voice echoing through the valley. "Is there some long lost Winchester brother you've been fooling around with behind my back?"

"Jesus, kid, don't be so stupid!"

"Then what the fuck is this?"

"We might not be able to stop what's coming, all right?" Dean screamed.

His echo died a slow death until the only sound remaining was the deceptively peaceful crackling of the fire.

"So you're just gonna give up?" Sam whispered.

"Of _course_ I'm not giving up," Dean growled back, veins protruding from his neck. "But in the event that we can't save me from the pit…"

"We _will_ save you from the pit, Dean."

"But if we can't…"

"We _WILL!_" Sam exploded.

"You don't know that!"

"I don't know? I don't fucking _know?_"

Sam yanked his beer bottle out of the arm rest and chucked it past Dean's head where it splattered against the trunk of a pine tree. Dean shielded himself against the spray.

"You want to know what I know, Dean?" he seethed. "You want to hear a little something about hell?"

"Sam…"

"No, no. I think it's time you hear what it was really like for me. What it was like to spend six months _COMPLETELY_ alone. Six months where every minute of every hour of every day, I had to live with the fact that I didn't know whether I was in reality or not. Where every night before I went to bed, I prayed to God that I would wake up back in Florida and you would be there again. Six straight months of not talking to a single living person, not even Bobby, because I was afraid that if I did, I would be admitting to myself that this was actually real, that you were really gone and that I was the only person in our family left alive.

"Do you realize that I thought about killing myself over a hundred times, hoping that it would wake me up from the dream that the Trickster had me stuck in? But the only thing that stopped me was the thought of eventually finding him again so that I could know for sure that it was an illusion. Because maybe, _maybe_, there was some slim chance that you were really still alive somewhere.

"And after all of that, I got you back, Dean. I did. I found the fucking Trickster, and I got him to let me come back. I was condemned to a torture that was specifically _designed_ to make me give up, and I kept going anyway, and against all the odds, I got your fucking ass back! So are you really going to stand there and tell me what I know and don't know? Fuck you, man. I'll tell you what I fucking know.

"What I know is that we _will_ get you out of your deal. And if we can't, I'm making a goddamn deal of my own so that we can at least go to hell together. Either way. I will not—will _NOT_—be separated from you again."

Sam's breath went in and out rapidly in small white puffs, and Dean's hands shook uncontrollably at his sides. He had never seen Sam so angry before.

"Sammy…" Dean whispered.

"If you're planning to argue with me," Sam said flatly, his fingers curling into sharp fists, "you're planning to be taken down."

Dean swallowed noisily and shook his head to say that he was finished disagreeing.

"Sammy boy," he repeated in a husky voice.

"What."

"Need you."

Sam closed the distance between them in seconds, roughly shoving Dean backwards and slamming him into a tree trunk. Dean reached for Sam's hair, but Sam slapped his hands away viciously, then jerked Dean's head to the right, attacking his neck with bites and sucking kisses.

"Sam," Dean whimpered. "Too hard."

"Ssshh," Sam hushed. He lightened up on his biting momentarily to lick the teeth marks on his brother's neck. Then he pushed Dean's face in the other direction, beginning his assault on the other side of his neck.

Dean knew that Sam needed this control right now, needed to feel like he had a say in their lives for once, so he did his best to relinquish his domineering instincts and let himself be taken. But damn, it was tough. If he could just get a couple handfuls of Sammy's hair…

"Touch me," Sam hissed.

Immediately, Dean's hands shot up to Sam's head, and his fingers slid through the thick dark hair, alternately pulling lightly and running his short fingernails over Sam's scalp. Sam had started doing tongue tricks in Dean's ear, and he felt himself going weak in the knees.

"Goddamn," he breathed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Sam bit Dean's earlobe in response, and Dean let out an involuntary yelp that bounced back and forth in the dark.

"You're fucking mine," Sam droned in Dean's ear. Dean could only nod helplessly as Sam's thigh found its way between his legs. He gasped as the pressure against his balls became a little too much, then relaxed as Sam pulled back.

It was becoming clear that while Sam seemed hungry and reckless, he really had total control over everything that he was doing. He wasn't hurting Dean out of anger or desperation. He was calculating his moves so that they hurt just enough to feel good.

_We really _are_ brothers,_ Dean thought with a lustful grin. He had used the same technique dozens of times.

Sam was rubbing up and down against Dean, still sucking heartily on his neck. Then he stepped back long enough to lift Dean's shirt, and he dove into Dean's nipple, biting down and eliciting another small shriek from Dean who then chuckled at his total lack of self control.

So this is what it felt like. He would have to let Sammy take the reins more often. He ran his hands through Sam's hair again, eyes pointing heavenward, nipple on fire, and cock straining painfully against his tight jeans.

And right on cue, Sam fell to his knees, frantically pulling Dean's belt apart and awkwardly opening his jeans, grunting in frustration.

"Fucking button fly bullshit," he muttered under his breath.

Dean began to laugh again, but then his cock was springing up into the freezing air and into Sam's hot little mouth.

"God Almighty!" Dean gasped through clenched teeth as Sam slid his lips all the way down to the base of the shaft, and as if _that_ wasn't perfect enough, his long tongue snaked out and licked a generous strip up the center of Dean's balls. "Muuuuuuhhh," Dean moaned dumbly.

Minutes went by as Sam gave every variety of head Dean had ever heard of, all lips and tongue, and then a light grazing of teeth, then a combination of mouth and hand. And when Dean thought he couldn't possibly be more turned on, Sam started tilting his head from side to side as he bobbed up and down, adding a twist effect that nearly sent Dean falling to his ass. He caught himself against the tree and looked down at the top of Sam's bouncing head.

"Who are you right now?" he asked with amused wonder.

Sam pulled off of Dean's cock head with a smack of his lips and looked up at his brother, smiling proudly, lips red and swollen and chin dripping with spit.

"Oh, _hell_ no," Dean declared.

He reached underneath Sam's arms and yanked him to his feet, jamming his tongue down Sam's throat. Sam was breathless from going down on Dean for so long, and he pulled back, filling his lungs with large gulps of cold air.

"Unh-unh," Dean denied him. "I need you _now._"

He pulled Sam in again and devoured his mouth, nibbling first on his upper lip and then sucking his lower lip into his mouth, holding it with his teeth and gently rolling over it with his tongue.

As he did so, he reached down and deftly freed Sam's cock from his jeans, then grabbed his bare ass and pulled him in so their warm erections could slide alongside each other.

"De," Sam whimpered into Dean's mouth.

Dean took Sam's face in his hands and it was as if everything went into slow motion. Dean halted the hyper pace of his kisses, and began licking the inside of Sam's mouth with agonizing relish and painful precision. Sam unconsciously rose onto his toes as the muscles in his legs began to spasm from the pleasure, and his whole body squirmed from right to left under the attention of Dean's talented lips.

"Dean, I need…" he whispered.

"What do you need, baby?" Dean asked gently, kissing Sam's forehead and then his temple and then his cheek.

Sam uttered a small whine as Dean licked a strip from the bottom of his ear to the tip of his chin.

"Hmm?" Dean urged. "Anything you want, kiddo. Just name it."

"Dean, please," Sam begged, unable to say the words.

But he didn't have to. Dean could tell from the softening of Sam's body that he was ready to give back the control. Dean was happy to take it. Domineering Sam was a fun change of pace, and one they would definitely have to explore again, but nothing made Dean happier than taking care of his little brother.

And with that, the balance of power shifted, and Dean planted two firm hands on Sam's waist, pushing him away softly so that Dean could lead him back toward the open flap of the small tent. They walked carefully as they were both still wearing their jeans at half mast, and when they got to the tent, Dean delicately lowered Sam inside.

Sam's feet were still hanging out of the tent, and Dean quickly untied his little brother's shoelaces so that he could pull off the work boots and tug the pants down over his feet. Once Sam was free of the constricting jeans, he scurried back into the tent and inside his sleeping bag, tugging off his coat and his shirt. Dean stripped down outside of the tent, tossed his clothes inside, and then jumped into the bag with Sam, his impact causing them to roll over each other until they crashed into the tent wall. Sam laughed.

"You're determined to destroy this tent, aren't you?"

Dean nibbled Sam's neck in response, and Sam immediately lost his breath. The friction of two warm bodies inside one small sleeping bag had them sweating in no time, and they rubbed against each other furiously.

"Sammy," Dean moaned. "I want… I want to be inside."

They both groaned with pleasure at the hotness of the image that the statement conjured up, and the combination of that and the slickness of their bodies gliding in perfect and rapid momentum, and they were suddenly screaming with the jolt of surprise orgasms. After pushing through the painful pleasure and reaching the end, Dean collapsed his head onto Sam's shoulder and panted heavily.

"Oops," he said.

"Yeah," Sam laughed. "I didn't see that coming. No pun intended."

Dean slapped the side of his head. "Dork."

As their breathing began to slow, they settled more comfortably into each other, legs intertwining as Sam's long arms wrapped gently around his brother's back, running his fingertips up and down Dean's spine. Dean hummed appreciatively.

"And congratulations," Sam whispered with a twinge of mischief.

"For what?" Dean asked.

"We got through our first orgasm together without crying."

Dean rose up on his elbows and looked down at Sam with a glare. "Bitch," he grunted.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam smiled. "You've been right there with me, bawling like a baby. Maybe you're the bitch."

"Sam Winchester wears makeup," Dean said childishly and put his head back down on Sam's shoulder.

"Dean Winchester cries his way through sex," Sam retorted.

"Does not."

"I had a front row seat, my little weeping willow."

Dean shook his head vigorously. "That is _not_ my pet name."

"We'll see."

"Sam Winchester keeps a ruler by his bed—" Dean began.

"—And every morning when he wakes up," Sam interrupted, "he checks to see if Little Sam has gotten any longer."

Rising up on his elbows a second time, Dean stared down at Sam with wide eyes. "How the hell did you do that?"

"We've had this conversation before," Sam droned.

"We have?"

"Like sixty times."

"Where was I?" Dean asked, scrunching his eyebrows together.

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam said with a sigh.

"I do not cry during sex," Dean said grumpily, resting his face into Sam's neck. "Or ever," he added.

"Right, and you certainly don't have sex with your brother either," Sam replied. "Because that would be humiliating."

Instead of a witty retort, Dean kissed Sam's ear. "And if by humiliating, you mean incredible…"

Sam smiled, wrapping his arms more tightly around his brother, basking in their shared warmth as the light from the fire outside slowly died down. He lay awake for a while after Dean had fallen asleep, allowing his thoughts to gradually slow down before his mind turned off completely. And just before nodding off, he noticed with a sense of pleasant surprise that the last words traveling through his brain, directed at no one in particular, were "Thank you."


	4. New Town, New Job

A/N: As always, profuse thanks to all who are reading and reviewing. It means so much to me that we can all share this story together. And as always, sorry for the long wait. And as always, more is on the way. Happy reading!

* * *

Sam felt like he had been wrapped in a cocoon. He was warm and cushioned and snug. He sighed and smiled drowsily, keeping his eyes closed as he reached around the inside of his sleeping bag for his brother's arms. He frowned as he realized Dean wasn't there.

"Where are you?" he moaned grumpily.

The zipper of the tent flap squealed open, and Dean stuck his head inside. "Rise and shine, my little caterpillar," he whispered.

Sam squiggled and squirmed until he was facing his brother, every part of him covered by the sleeping bag except for his face. Dean laughed at the sight which only made Sam's pout more pronounced.

"I thought I would be wrapped in _you_ this morning," he whined. "Get back in here."

Dean shook his head. "No can do, kid," he clucked. "Put your clothes on and come out here with me."

"Why?"

"Would you just do it?" Dean didn't wait for an answer. His head popped back out of view, and Sam grumbled under his breath as he heard his brother's footsteps crunching away through the twigs.

He squirmed toward the side of the tent where he had left his clothes, and he shivered as he attempted to pull them into his bag without allowing any cold air to touch his naked skin. He failed, however, and his flesh broke out in painful goose bumps as his breath clouded in white puffs before his face.

What the hell was Dean's problem? They should be warming each other up with body heat and tender kisses, not dragging themselves out into the freezing cold at the butt crack of dawn like they were part of some boot camp from hell. He shoved his feet unhappily into his shoes, grumbling under his breath, bemoaning the fact that this was supposed to be their special time together, their adventure out into the unknown, free from pressing tasks and real world worries, and here Dean was treating it like any other miserable day.

"We only have so much time left together before…" Sam muttered, then abruptly cut himself off. That nagging knot in the center of his chest flared hotly at the thought of Dean's uncertain future, and he held his breath, swallowing the fear down with great effort. He hated when it snuck up on him like that.

"Sammy!" Dean hollered. "Are you going to make me count to three?"

"I'm not your freaking child, Dean, Jesus," Sam whined under his breath, even as he dutifully pulled his thick winter coat tightly around himself and crawled out through the tent's small opening. His rant was cut short as he was temporarily blinded by a bright white light. He heard Dean chuckling softly as he squinted against the glare, taking in the sight around him.

It had snowed during the night. Their little spot in the woods was covered in shining, untouched whiteness, and the branches of the surrounding pine trees hung low, weighed down under the layers of frost, creating a sort of gazebo effect around them, isolating them cozily from the rest of the world.

The sky above was covered in smooth, white clouds that were indiscernible from the covered landscape around them. And in the center of it all stood Dean, his eyes glowing warmly in the light of a small campfire.

"What…" Sam began quietly.

"Surprise," Dean whispered.

"Did you…" Sam started again, unable to find the words.

"Orchestrate this?" Dean asked. "I wish. That would pretty much make me the best boyfriend in the world, right?" He winked. Sam smiled back at him shyly. "But I did plan _this_," Dean said.

He crunched through the soft snow towards Sam, who noticed for the first time that Dean was holding two Styrofoam cups. "Careful," Dean said. "It's hot."

He handed one of the cups to his brother, and Sam took it gratefully, assuming that it was coffee. He let out a surprised giggle, however, when he saw big, bloated marshmallows floating around on the surface of the steaming liquid. "_Hot chocolate?_" he observed with childlike awe. Dean smiled widely, pleased with himself.

"I haven't had hot chocolate since…" Sam stared into space thoughtfully. "Have I ever had hot chocolate?"

"I wouldn't think so, no," Dean laughed.

Sam blew into the cup gently and took a slow sip. "Mmm," he hummed, savoring the rich flavor.

"Oh," Dean said, stepping closer. "You got a little…"

"What?"

"Just a little bit of…" Dean motioned toward his own upper lip, signaling to Sam he had a spot of melted marshmallow on his face.

"What, Dean?" Sam asked, adorably clueless.

Dean shook his head. "This is such a cliché. Forgive me."

He pulled Sam close and kissed him, his tongue reaching out and softly licking the marshmallow off of Sam's lip. Sam hummed again, his voice taking on a guttural tone.

"You taste like chocolate," he told Dean secretively.

"You taste like heaven," Dean responded.

"Cheesy," Sam chuckled.

"Get over it."

They embraced each other in another long and sensual kiss, their hot chocolate already forgotten. As the kiss wound down, they rested their foreheads against each other, their breath coming out in steaming puffs as their heartbeats gradually slowed to a regular pace.

"Besides," Dean whispered, "if I'm going to spend eternity in Hell, I think I deserve at least a couple of cheesy moments, don't I?"

Sam's breath stopped. He abruptly pulled away. "I can't believe you just said that," he said darkly, turning toward the icy trees.

"Sam, it was a joke."

"Your fucking sense of humor is a joke, Dean. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm just trying to lighten…" Dean trailed off. "Sammy, I can't stand this big horrible thing always hanging over us. Can you blame me for wanting to take the edge off of it?"

"You want to take the edge off, Dean?" Sam repeated, spinning around to face his brother. "How about just not bringing it up at all? We were having a perfect morning, and you totally messed it up."

"Yeah, we were having the perfect morning because of _me_, remember? Because I did all of this for you. Because I know I may not have that many more chances to make you happy, and I want to at least leave you with some good memories."

"Don't say that!"

"So forgive me for trying to do something nice!" Dean blared. "In fact, forgive me for making this stupid deal in the first place, which, by the way, I only did to save _your _whining ass!"

Sam bared his teeth in a menacing grin. "You seriously gonna make this my fault now?"

He chucked his cup into the snow and began storming away in the direction of the road.

"Sammy, wait," Dean said, grabbing his brother's arm. "You can't just take off."

"Why not? You're going to." He tried to keep going but Dean held him back.

"I said _if_, Sam. I don't know what's going to happen, and sure, we may still find a way out of this, but we can't know that, okay? You know I'm right." Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean interrupted. "And before you say it, no, I'm not giving up. Of course I'm not. But Dad always taught me to cover all of my bases, and that means that in the event that I die a month from now, at least I'll know I made you as happy as I possibly could while I was here."

Sam's arm went limp in Dean's grip and he bowed his head, planting his face in his hand. "I can't take this," he whispered roughly.

Dean forcefully wrapped his arms around Sam's waist from behind and kissed the side of his neck. "Yes, you can," he grunted with determination.

"I can't, Dean. I can't. After thinking that I lost you and then getting you back only to have to face losing you again… It's too much."

"It can't be too much, Sammy. We don't have the luxury of letting it be too much. We have to deal, just like Dad always said. No matter what life brings us."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, Dad taught us that lesson before we were old enough to know that life would only ever deal us one shitty hand after another."

Dean pulled Sam gently backwards until they had reached their camp chairs which had miraculously been spared from the snowstorm by the overhanging tree branches. He sat Sam down in one chair and pulled his own close so that their knees were touching.

"Let's start over," he said. "Let's pretend like I just woke you up, and I promise I won't screw up our morning this time."

Shaking his head, Sam took Dean's hand and placed it on his own thigh, rubbing his thumb gently over the weathered knuckles. "You were right, Dean. It's stupid to just pretend like everything's okay. We need to deal with this, and that's just a plain and simple fact."

"Still, I could have been more sensitive," Dean murmured.

Nodding, Sam picked up Dean's hand and kissed it. "Yeah, you could have."

Dean looked down at the Styrofoam cup still resting crookedly in his other hand. "Hot chocolate's cold," he said glumly.

* * *

Sam opened the bathroom door, his skin fresh and steaming from his shower as his towel hung loosely around his hips. He peeked out into the motel room and leaned his face against the doorframe sadly. Dean had both of their bags lying open on each of the beds and was busily scooting around the room, sorting out their belongings to pack them away.

Just as he was tightly rolling a pair of wrinkled jeans, he noticed Sam watching him. He smiled appreciatively as he did a full scan of Sam's exposed and glistening torso. But his eyes became concerned when he saw the reluctant expression on his little brother's face.

"What's the matter, baby boy?"

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "It's stupid."

"Well, I'm sure it is, but I'd be a shitty boyfriend if I didn't ask, right?"

He winked slyly, eliciting only half a smile from Sam's tense lips.

"I just…" Sam began, feeling his face grow warm. "This town has started to feel like home. This room, even." Then very quietly, "I don't want to go."

Dean nodded solemnly, glancing around the room. It had definitely taken on a more inviting quality than he remembered any motel room ever having before, a softness that somehow made the room seem both larger and smaller at the same time. Even the smell had become familiar and comforting.

"I know what you mean," he agreed quietly, squeezing the rolled jeans in his hands absently. "It's like this place is where my life really started to matter."

A chill went down Sam's spine. He hadn't been able to articulate the feeling in quite the same way, but it was exactly how he felt. And for Dean to be able to say something so beautiful, and so vulnerable, demonstrated how good this time really had been for them. Sam was afraid of walking out the door for the last time, afraid that once they left their private bubble and got back into the world, Dean wouldn't feel as free to love and express himself as he had been here. Not to mention that they still had to deal with the possible fate that awaited Dean in just a few frighteningly short weeks.

Sam was surprised that while he had been thinking, Dean had crept up to him and was now running the back of his callused fingers down Sam's face. Sam closed his eyes, feeling his heart open up at the touch. Dean leaned in and barely brushed his lips against Sam's, then leaned his own face against the wall so they were eye to eye, his fingers still wrapped around the nape of Sam's neck, running his thumb along Sam's jaw.

"I will spend the rest of my life loving you, Sammy," he whispered. "No matter how long that turns out to be."

Feeling his eyes grow hot with moisture for what must have been the millionth time that month, Sam nodded his head. "I know," he uttered.

"You better," Dean replied seriously. "Just because we're leaving this town doesn't mean that everything that happened here is going to go away." He moved his hand down to Sam's chest, planting his palm over his brother's beating heart. "We're more than brothers now, and that's exactly the way that I want it."

Sam smiled tearfully, his own hand covering Dean's and gripping it tightly. "When did you learn how to read my mind?" he asked.

"I've always been able to," Dean answered. "I just didn't have a reason to say so."

They shared another moment of staring into each other's eyes, Sam feeling sure that Dean could see every loving thought that passed through him.

"It's time to go, Sammy," he whispered.

Sam nodded. "I know."

They packed up the rest of their things in silence, then Dean led the way as they exited their small room for the last time. He crossed the threshold with his head bowed, his pace quick as if he wanted to get out as soon as possible. Sam stopped next to the door and turned around for one last look at what had become their temporary home. With all of their personal things out of sight, it didn't look so familiar anymore. It was just a motel room, just like any other motel room they had stayed in. It felt empty, hollow.

He tried to remind himself that the most important thing was that he and Dean were together. Their relationship is what mattered, and this little room really didn't mean anything.

And yet, a little piece of his heart broke when he clicked the door shut on his way out.

* * *

Sam leaned his head against the window as miles of snow-covered fields flew by. He held a box in his lap from their favorite diner. It was an apple pie, a parting gift from their waitress, Clara. It was still warm against his thighs.

"We gonna crack that thing open or what?" Dean asked brightly.

"Are you saying you can eat pie and drive at the same time?"

"I'm willing to try."

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm not really hungry," he said sullenly.

Dean reached over and put a hand on Sam's thigh, squeezing it lightly. "Hey," he said seriously. "It's going to be okay."

"Clara was so sad when we told her we were leaving," Sam said.

"But it's temporary, right? We'll come back."

"Well, sure, that's what we told her," Sam groaned.

"Because it's the truth. Sam, we _are_ coming back. This lead that you found in Arizona sounds like it might be the just the thing."

Sam opened the glove compartment and pulled out a tourist brochure with a picture of what was supposedly an Arizona desert. "'Energy Vortexes in Sedona, Arizona, Experience the Natural Healing Powers,'" Sam read in a loud announcer voice, then looked pointedly at his brother. "It's a long shot, Dean."

"It's not!" Dean argued. "You found tons of stories on the internet about magical stuff happening in those places."

"Yeah, written by a bunch of hash smoking hippies," Sam said doubtfully.

"Hey, we know better than to doubt the validity of a tall tale, man," Dean insisted. "Besides, it's the only place where anyone ever found enough mojo to get themselves out of a crossroads deal."

"Supposedly. But isn't it a little weird how the man who made that claim disappeared right after it happened and was never heard from again?"

Dean gripped the steering wheel and the muscles in his cheek flexed as he clenched his teeth. "It's a start, Sam. That's all we can ask for right now."

Sam nodded wordlessly in agreement.

"Now feed me some of that pie before it gets cold," Dean demanded.

"Feed you?" Sam asked with disbelief.

"I've been thinking long and hard about it, and it's the only way I'll be able to eat it while I'm driving."

Sam continued to stare as though Dean were insane.

"Come on!" Dean encouraged. "Feed me!" Then to emphasize his point, he grabbed one of the napkins from a stack on top of the pie box and shoved it down the collar of his shirt, the rest of it hanging limply over his chest. "Please? I'm starving. Have pity on me, my juicy crabapple."

"Fine," Sam spat. "If the only way to stop another tirade of nicknames is to plug your mouth up with food, then count me in."

"Thanks, apple cobbler," Dean grinned.

"Stop."

"Apple crisp."

"Stop!"

"Frilly apple fritter face."

Dean's last word was cut off by a large lump of pie shoved unceremoniously into his mouth.

"Eat up, sticky buns," Sam said with a triumphant grin.

"Sticky buns!" Dean declared with his mouth full. "That's beautiful!"

He wiped some of the appley goo off of his cheek with two fingers and put them under Sam's nose. "Open," he commanded.

Sam squinted as if to communicate that he was still annoyed, but then he opened his mouth and allowed Dean's sticky fingers to slide in. Both of their cocks began to stir as Sam licked and sucked on the thick, strong fingers until they were totally clean. Dean stared into Sam's eyes lustfully until Sam gently reached over and put a hand on the steering wheel, correcting their course before they ran into a snow bank.

"Thanks," Dean whispered.

"Sure," Sam replied.

"Sammy, I…" Dean began in a voice that sounded more like pleading than he had been planning on.

"Ssh," Sam soothed. "I know."

Then he closed the box of pie and put it down on the floor. He pulled the napkin out of Dean's shirt and wiped the rest of the pie off of his brother's face. Dean looked tense but he allowed it.

"Let me take care of you," Sam said then, and he dropped the crumpled napkin onto the floor.

He leaned down and buried his face in Dean's crotch, taking a deep breath in. Dean gasped and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Sammy," he whispered desperately. It had been more than a day since they had touched each other like this. Far too long as far as Dean was concerned.

He did his best not to actually cry out as he felt his zipper being lowered and a strong hand maneuvering his boxer briefs out of the way until he could feel the skin of his dick exposed to the open air. Seconds later, that same skin was swallowed up into dark, warm wetness and he couldn't stop the broken moan that escaped his throat. His eyes watered as he fought the urge to close them with pleasure, and he lightened up on the gas pedal, slowing down just as Sam's urgent sucking slowed to a graceful up and down motion, like a toy horse on a merry-go-round.

The coordination of Sam's mouth was shocking. The perfect rhythm of his strokes, the tension of his lips, and the acrobatics of his tongue worked magic on Dean's senses. He felt like his whole length was being stimulated all at once. He risked taking one hand off of the wheel to bury his fingers in Sam's hair, scratching at the back of Sam's head lovingly.

"Mmm," Sam moaned, sending a vibration that radiated all the way down to Dean's puckered asshole.

"Uuuuh," Dean grunted. And before he knew what was happening, his hips were suddenly thrusting roughly, the head of his cock twitching painfully as it collided with the back of Sam's throat.

But Sam didn't miss a beat. The suction of his cheeks tightened and he adjusted his position slightly so that he could more easily take all of Dean into his mouth. He reached down and lightly tickled Dean's balls with the tips of his fingers, encouraging his brother to spill whenever he was ready to.

"Baby…" Dean wheezed, the fight to keep his eyes open becoming more and more impossible with each thrust.

Even after all this time, he couldn't believe the love that permeated every sexual act between them. He had never really felt love during sex before, had rarely felt anything more than the physical gratification. But now the swelling of his heart was just as powerful, if not more so, than his impending orgasm, and it was as if the two sensations were feeding off of each other, gaining more power with every passing moment until he felt like his head would explode.

Soon his cock grew tight and hot and he felt the first spasms of release beginning to occur, and try as he might, he could not keeps his eyes open. His mouth shot open in a silent scream of painful pleasure and his mind became as white and blank as the passing snow as his eyes rolled back into his head. He was marginally aware of the car beginning to swerve to the left, but he didn't have the power to open his eyes and correct it.

As he came down Sam's throat, he felt frantic slurping and sucking all around the head of his cock, torturing the sensitive skin with too much glorious movement, and Sam grunted deeply as he worked to swallow every drop. And somewhere in Dean's haze of consciousness, he felt himself jerk against the door as the car righted itself from its wayward path just in time to miss a honking semi truck driving in the opposite direction.

Dean gasped and panted loudly, then lightened the pressure of his right foot which he realized had been pushing the gas pedal all the way to the floor. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands and forced his eyes open. Not much had changed. Still white, still overcast, still as monotonous and flat and unending. Only now there was a fire in his heart and a cramp near his groin that added volumes to the barren landscape around him, almost like an invisible world of particles and atoms dancing together in beautiful chaos had been revealed to him.

Sam sat up next to him and smiled into his eyes breathlessly. His lips were red and swollen, and his hair was tousled from Dean's eager hands, and if Dean's heart was full before, he thought it would certainly pop now. He risked a quick but intense kiss to his brother's lips before returning his attention to the road.

Sam then slumped back into his own seat, catching his breath as his hand idly swept over Dean's thigh. He was falling asleep.

"I'd offer to take care of you, baby boy, but I'm a little occupied," Dean said quietly.

"You take care of me just by being here," Sam replied sincerely, his eyes drooping low.

Dean watched with quiet adoration as his little brother fought for a few minutes to stay awake, his head nodding and then jerking back up several times. But after a while, the exhaustion was too much and his head fell back against the seat followed by a long, slow snore from deep in his throat.

"Oh, come on," Dean said to himself in disbelief. He was sure he had never seen anything so cute.

* * *

Arizona was hotter than either one of them had expected after their long layover in Maine. The dry air had a dusty scent to it, and they couldn't strip their warm coats off fast enough once they arrived in their latest motel room.

Compared to their last accommodations, their current place of residence seemed stale and uninviting. While Sam was quiet and sad about it, Dean found it comforting. Not that he wanted things between him and Sam to go back to normal, but at least in a new motel that didn't have so many powerful memories, they could get to the business of saving his soul without too much distraction. And given the downright abysmal chances of their success, they would need all the focus they could get.

But first…

"Did you see that bar on the way into town?" Dean asked, eyeing the musculature of Sam's back through the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

Sam was standing over his bed, pulling out rolled up pairs of jeans and flattening them against the bedspread before folding them and sticking them in the drawer.

"Did I see what?" he asked absently.

"The bar," Dean repeated, coming up behind Sam and wrapping strong arms around his waist. Sam smiled, allowing Dean to hold him while he continued to unpack.

"I didn't see anything. I was asleep, remember?"

"Let's go get a brew," Dean suggested huskily.

Sam turned slightly in Dean's grasp, giving him a cockeyed glance over his shoulder. "A brew?" he enunciated carefully.

"Yeah," Dean said casually. "That's what we do, right? New town, new job. We have to start our stay on the right foot."

With a short clearing of his throat, Sam turned in Dean's arms and gently rested his hands around the back of Dean's neck. "This isn't just some job, Dean," he said unsurely.

"Still," Dean persisted, "we have a little time left before anything happens. Why not enjoy ourselves? Just for one night."

"We have a month," Sam stated flatly.

Dean flinched, but recovered quickly. "Pff. A month," he scoffed. "A month is forever!"

"No, Dean. _Forever_ is forever. A month is…" Sam averted his eyes.

…_not nearly enough time_, he finished silently.

The look in Sam's eyes made Dean's blood run cold. All the more reason to change the subject.

"Come on," Dean said with the slightest hint of authority in his voice. He slapped Sam's shoulders roughly as a way of indicating that the conversation was over and the decision had been made. "This desert air has got me thirsting something awful."

He strutted toward the door of the motel room, snatching up his key from the bed, and walked out of the room, mentally willing Sam to follow.

"Dean, we have to get to work," Sam argued behind him weakly.

"That's what we're doing, baby boy," Dean said too quietly for Sam to hear.

And his heart ceased its threat to jump into his throat as he heard Sam grudgingly pick up his own key and follow Dean out of the room.

* * *

"This is the one," Dean said with satisfaction as they pulled into a parking lot only three blocks away from their motel. Sam didn't like the tone of Dean's voice.

"What do you mean 'the one?'" he asked suspiciously.

A hesitation that lasted less than half a second, and Dean smiled at his brother charmingly. "I mean this is the one that I saw on the way into town. What did you think I meant?"

It was Sam's turn to hesitate, and his forehead wrinkled in a very specific way, an expression that was usually a precursor to a very long and uncomfortably emotional conversation. Dean held his breath in nervous anticipation.

"Something is going on that I don't know about, isn't it?" Sam posited. "You know as well as I do that we don't have time for any of this. What gives?"

Dean looked deeply into Sam's worried eyes, attempting to glean whatever it would take to get Sam to go with him on this. The silence became deafening until finally Dean's expression softened again, and he took Sam's hand in his own, pulsing it lovingly and kissing the tips of his fingers one at a time.

"Can I have one more normal night with my favorite person in the world?" he asked through lowered eyelids.

The firm square of Sam's tense shoulders melted into a more malleable shape, and he smiled sadly. "We're going to have as many normal nights as we want, Dean. You're not going to leave me."

"I know, I know," Dean nodded. "But still. I don't want us to lose sight of what's important."

Sam's eyebrows rose questioningly.

"Us," Dean supplied. "We're not us if we don't start a job off with a cold drink. It's like our good luck charm, right? Right?" He poked Sam in the rib causing a short hiccup of laughter in spite of his misgivings.

"I guess," Sam complied.

"Yeah?" Dean urged seductively.

"Yeah, I guess so," Sam nodded. "Fine. One night. But we can't get wasted. We need to get up early tomorrow, and a hangover will only slow us down."

"You got yourself a deal," Dean smiled.

"I just got played, didn't I?" Sam stated.

"Maybe a little," Dean shrugged.

"You're a dirty bastard, Dean Winchester."

"I can handle that."

Dean reached across the seat and pulled Sam's face to his own, kissing him possessively, and Sam happily allowed it as every hair on his body stood stiffly on end. His mind wandered momentarily into the future, several years from now maybe, and he wondered whether this kind of electricity between them would still be around when they were older and more accustomed to their love for each other.

He sprang back to the present as Dean pulled away with a smack of his lips. "Beer time," he said excitedly, jumping out of the car, leaving Sam scrambling to keep up.

"Dick," Sam muttered with a dazed smile on his face.

* * *

Three beers later and the goofy smile remained in place.

"You haven't said much," Dean half-shouted to be heard over the raucous group of college students at the other end of the bar playing darts.

"Just thinkin'," Sam replied.

"About something good, it looks like," Dean said, poking his fingertip lightly against Sam's dimple.

"About a week ago, before we left Maine," Sam remembered, then smiled even more brightly, his face turning a light shade of pink. "You called me your boyfriend." On that word, a jittery laugh escaped his throat.

Dean smiled back. "I was wondering when you would pick up on that."

"I never thought I would hear that word coming from you."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of things you probably didn't expect from me," Dean chuckled. "And yet, here we find ourselves."

"No, I just mean," Sam went on, "I guess I just didn't ever think of us as boyfriends before."

Dean twirled the bottom of his beer bottle against the bar thoughtfully. "Well, we love each other, right?"

"Of course," Sam nodded.

"And we're loyal to each other. I mean, we're not with anyone else."

"Well, yeah," Sam agreed.

"And we do things that boyfriends do together. And I'm not talking about going on dates, although I'm open to that, too."

"A date would mean that you don't make me pay, Dean," Sam corrected.

"I'm saving my money for pie!" Dean defended himself.

Sam shook his head and laughed.

"I'm just saying," Dean continued, "I think of us as… together. You know? I guess I just wanted you to know that's how I think of you." He smiled sweetly at Sam. Then, "And it's about fucking time you caught on, dimwit."

Sam flashed his middle finger at Dean with a smile on his face. Dean smiled in return.

They both took a drink of the beer and allowed several minutes to pass by in wordlessness.

"Seems like there should be a better word than boyfriend, though," Dean finally stated, shaking his head. "It just sounds so…"

"Unofficial," Sam finished. "Temporary."

Dean looked into his eyes seriously. "There isn't a word for what you are to me, little brother. How could there be?"

Sam's expression filled with something like deep emotion and animal lust. "I'm going to do so many things to you when we get back to our room," he promised darkly.

"Why wait?" Dean fired back, leaning in for a kiss.

Just before their lips touched, Sam whispered. "We're being watched."

"Who gives a fuck?" Dean breathed. "They don't know us."

"No, Dean. We're being _watched_."

Dean followed the trail of Sam's stare to the group of young adults still gathered around the dart board. They all seemed oblivious and hyper and more than a little drunk. All except one. She stood so close to the group that one could hardly notice that she didn't really seem part of them. She was dressed like they were and she was the same age, but while the rest moved around and yelled and laughed, the girl stood perfectly still with her arms at her sides. Staring.

"Someone should tell Elvira over there to get out and enjoy the sun once in a while," Sam commented, noting the girl's fair skin, made even paler by the long black hair that framed her face.

Dean didn't respond. He was transfixed by the girl, by the way her casual, modest clothing seemed to hang sensually off of her body, by the way her neutral stance felt impossibly like an invitation to walk over and join her.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "You okay?"

More silence answered Sam's question. Sudden stabbing jealousy like steaming green bile bubbled up Sam's throat, and he felt his hands tightening painfully around his beer bottle as Dean got up and walked… no… _sauntered_ over to the girl. No. _Whore_. Dean's hands found their way to his jeans pockets, and his shoulders slumped smoothly, the way they did whenever he was playing coy to get into a woman's pants.

"Fucking kill you," Sam choked.

He saw the girl look away from Dean, only for a second, to flash Sam a look of satisfied triumph, and then everything went black.

* * *

…knuckles white on the steering wheel, white blinding snow smothering slick black road, can't keep eyes open against the burning of his cock…

…burning of his limbs as an ocean of fire laps at a shore of bones, terrible white eyes of smiling demon shining, tiny weeping specks of flesh are chopped off one by one…

* * *

_Your brother is mine now, sodomite._

_

* * *

_

Sam bolted upright in bed. The room was totally dark. He whipped around to look at the digital clock on the nightstand, but it was blinking 12:00 as if the power had been out.

"Dean?"

He felt around himself in the big bed, but no one was there with him.

"Dean!" he huffed in a shouted whisper across to the other bed. He couldn't make out anything in the darkness, and he couldn't hear Dean's breathing in the room, not that he could hear anything over the pounding of his own heart. And God help him, he was too scared to get out of bed to turn on the light. What the fuck was going on?

He reached over to the nightstand and fumbled blindly until he found his wristwatch. He held it close to his face and turned on the tiny LED light to see the date. April 15. So wherever Dean was, it wasn't hell.

"But where _are_ you?" Sam pleaded with the empty room. And why was his head pounding like he had been sleeping for ages?

He could feel the room staring coldly back at him, glaring right through to his cowardly, trembling heart. Too afraid to cry or call out again, Sam held his breath and shivered violently until he passed out from exhaustion.


	5. A Gift

A/N: Here you go, lovelies. :) More coming soon.

* * *

Sam woke up with most of his face smashed into his pillow and something warm under his foot. He smiled drowsily when he realized it was Dean's ankle. And then he jerked backwards violently.

"What?" Dean snorted himself awake, instinctively reaching for his gun on the bedside table.

"Dean!"

"The fuck, little brother?"

Sam scrambled out of the bed, got his leg twisted in one of the blankets, and fell to the floor, knocking his head hard against the wall. But far from slowing him down, the impact only frightened him more, and he crawled away from the bed and towards the door. He reached up for the knob even as the bedspread around his ankle prevented him from moving any further.

"What are you doing?" Dean demanded frantically, surveying Sam writhing around in only his boxer briefs.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Sam screeched, pawing at the doorknob.

"What the hell is your problem?" Dean yelled back.

"Who are you?" Sam bellowed.

"Who do I look like?" Dean snapped, then a look of nervousness came over him as he felt all over his face with his hand. "Wait… who _do_ I look like?" he asked fearfully.

"You look like my brother, but I know you're not him!" Sam cried. "What the hell did you do to me? Who was that girl?"

"Sam, you're being a freak! Of course I'm your brother!"

"Then why are you pointing your gun at me?"

Dean glanced down at the gun in his hand, finger wrapped tightly around the trigger, the barrel aimed squarely at the center of Sam's forehead. He sighed angrily and put the gun down on the nightstand.

"Because you scared the living shit out of me, that's why," he told Sam. "Now get your crazy ass over here and talk to me."

Dean started to lean forward so that he could climb back into the bed, but at his slightest move, Sam resumed his wild thrashing as he simultaneously attempted to kick the blanket off of his leg and unlock the door. It wasn't going well.

His panic became even more pronounced as Dean came toward him and reached for his leg.

"Fuck you!" Sam screamed. His eyes shut tight involuntarily, waiting for some kind of impact. But the next thing he knew, he could hear Dean's bare feet shuffling away from him, and he peeked through squinted eyes to see that his leg had been freed from the offending bedspread which Dean was now pulling over himself on the bed.

"If you're that determined to streak through Arizona, I won't be the one to stop you," Dean said grumpily. "When you want to talk like a normal person, I'm here."

He rolled over in a huff, facing away from Sam.

Sam remained dumfounded on the floor for a few minutes, his jaw hanging wide open.

"Close your mouth, kid. You'll get a fly in it."

"My mouth isn't…" Sam stuttered. "How did you… Goddamn it, Dean!"

Sam got to his feet and stormed back to the bed, yanking his side of the covers up and plopping himself onto the mattress next to his brother. Dean turned around and gave him an exhausted kiss on the cheek.

"So you believe it's me now?" Dean asked.

"No demon could ever irritate me as bad as you do," Sam snapped.

"Happy to oblige," Dean said, grabbing Sam forcefully around the waist and pulling him close. "Now shut up and let me wake up properly."

Sam pouted and grumbled, but he didn't pull away. "I shouldn't even let you touch me after the way you ditched me last night."

"I'm sure I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Dean said in a bad British accent.

"You're not funny," Sam said.

"I'm not conscious," Dean countered, eyes tightly shut.

"Was she worth it?" Sam asked.

Dean took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. "Sam, I really don't know what you're talking about."

Hearing the truthfulness in his voice, Sam turned sideways and looked at his brother searchingly. Dean opened his eyes and returned the gaze. Upon seeing the genuine fear in Sam's eyes, he sighed again and said, "So I guess it's time for a round of 'Let's Compare Our Memories From Last Night.'"

Sam nodded.

"Sometimes I really hate our lives," Dean grumbled.

* * *

They sat across the small table from each other sipping their coffee. The room's air conditioner whirred noisily in the background, and the desert sun shone starkly in through the window.

"So I just took off with her?" Dean asked in disbelief.

Sam fingered the rim of his mug sullenly. "Well, I didn't actually see you _go_ anywhere," he admitted. "I just saw you going towards her and then everything went black."

Dean shook his head. "And from that you assumed that I…"

"You looked like you were going over there to flirt, Dean. And she obviously wanted you to."

"_She _wanted…" Dean rubbed a hand down his face impatiently. "I don't even remember exactly which one of those girls you're talking about. I went over there to ask the group if they knew anything about the vortexes. That's it. Sammy…"

He reached out to touch Sam's shoulder, but Sam abruptly pulled away.

"Oh, come on, Sam, you've got to be kidding me with this. Things have been perfect between us, and then one little misunderstanding, and I'm in the dog house?"

"If it was only a misunderstanding, then how did I end up back in the hotel room alone?" Sam demanded.

"You weren't alone, Sam. It must have been a dream."

"Yeah? So you remember driving us back here, then?"

"Of course I…" Dean trailed off. "I…"

His eyes went up to the ceiling as he attempted to focus on how the night had ended. The thoughtful wrinkle in his forehead soon smoothed itself out into a tight line of realization.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Sam pushed.

Dean shook his head, still thinking. "I, um… I asked the group some questions. They knew what I was talking about but they didn't have anything to tell me. Then something… some_one_ touched my arm. I thought it was you, so I turned around and…"

"And what?"

"And then I woke up here," Dean finished. "Holy fuck."

He got up from his seat and began pacing the room, running his hand through his hair and then squeezing the tight muscles at the back of his neck.

"Must've been that girl," Sam said softly.

"Yeah, but who is she?"

Sam shrugged, totally lost for words.

"And how did you get back here?" Dean asked. "How did _I _get back here?"

"I don't know how you got back. I drove."

Dean's eyes widened. "You took my keys from me?"

Sam blinked, thinking about it. "Wait…"

"You took my keys and you left me there?"

"Wait, no," Sam amended. "No, I… It was snowing on the way home."

A long pause. "_What?_"

"And I was… and there was… I think I was getting head," Sam said quietly and quickly.

Another long pause, this one lasting more than a minute. Dean stared at Sam, not out of malice or anger or even hurt. He was just staring. Like Sam had spoken in a foreign language, and Dean was waiting in suspended animation for some kind of translation. Sam didn't have one. He was just as baffled by what he'd said as Dean was, hadn't even remembered that part of the memory until he had verbalized it.

"Well," Dean began slowly. "There are… a _couple_ of things wrong with that scenario." He gulped and breathed deeply and then continued. "The first one being…"

His face turned an unhealthy shade of red, and Sam briefly entertained the thought that he should run for cover as Dean's head was clearly about to explode.

"…the snow," Dean finished, veins standing out of his neck as he let his breath go in a long whoosh, his face fading from shiny red to a nauseous greenish-white.

"Now that I think about it," Sam stuttered nervously, "maybe it _was_ just a dream."

"I'd fucking hope so," Dean agreed, his teeth grinding noisily together.

The rattling of the air conditioner suddenly became extremely loud as the two brothers remained very still, neither able to meet the other's eyes. It made Sam sick. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like he couldn't talk to Dean. Actually, yes he could.

It was the day that he had decided not to tell Dean that he had spent six months alone in an alternate reality where Dean had gone to hell. And somehow after all of that time alone, Sam had felt even lonelier when he was lying to his brother about what he'd been through. He felt compelled to say something now, to fix whatever had just broken between them.

"It _must_ have been a dream," he repeated, nodding his head with certainty. "Not just because of the snow. I mean… Dean, you _know_ me." His voice had a hint of pleading in it, and he didn't care.

Dean ran his hand over his scruffy face, a gesture that always filled Sam with a sense of familiarity and comfort, and in this case, relief, as it usually came right before Dean was about to give up on being angry. True to form, Dean settled back into his chair with a shake of his head. He took Sam's hands in his.

"I do know you, Sammy," he agreed.

"And you know I wouldn't mess around on you," Sam pressed, squeezing Dean's fingers.

After a pause: "I know that I'd be able to tell if you were lying," Dean countered with half a smile.

Sam was slightly struck by the less than glowing demonstration of trust. But remembering his own jump to the wrong conclusion earlier that morning, one that he hoped Dean had forgotten, he decided not to pursue it further.

"But you think I would mess around on you?" Dean asked.

_Damn_.

Sam shook his head. "No," he said simply.

Dean stared into Sam's eyes expressionlessly, waiting for him to tell the truth.

"Okay, I freaked out," Sam admitted. "But it wasn't me, Dean. That girl…"

"That girl that I still have no memory of," Dean interjected.

"But I do!" Sam insisted. "And I know that wasn't a dream. Why else would neither of us remember how we got home unless something weird happened?"

Dean shrugged his shoulders. Sam had a point.

"As if we didn't have enough to deal with," Dean said with deep exasperation.

"Evil doesn't take a sick day," Sam said.

"And neither can we," Dean finished.

They looked knowingly at each other. It had been an old saying of their father's, one they had both hated growing up because it was most often uttered on days when one or both of them didn't feel like going to another new town and fighting another scary monster. Or waiting in a dirty motel room, wondering if their dad would come back alive.

"I'm with you, kiddo," Dean said, softly tapping his fist against the corner of Sam's chin.

"Yeah," Sam said. He looked at his watch. "Oh, shit. It's late. We have to get to work." He downed the rest of his coffee and stood up to head for the door.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean asked.

Even in as little as two words, Sam could hear something in Dean's voice that unnerved him. He turned around reluctantly.

"Hmm?" he responded.

"Did you think that maybe your… dream… was a vision?" Dean suggested slowly.

Sam shook his head. "Couldn't have been. Visions leave me with a splitting headache. I feel fine."

"Just 'cause, you know," Dean went on, "I've heard that places like this, you know, energy hot spots or whatever, can tend to um… activate things. And since you haven't had a vision in such a long time, maybe…"

"No," Sam said. "No, I think I would know."

"'Kay," Dean agreed, seeming satisfied. "So, no other freaky dreams that I should be aware of, right?"

In that moment, a sickening flood of a memory came rushing back, and Sam remembered the other dream he had had, the one with a white-eyed demon, and a blade, and pieces of _himself_ splattering onto the bone-covered ground around him. He felt as though his head was spinning, and a loud ringing began to buzz in his ears as he burped up a mouthful of coffee-laced stomach acid.

He turned away from Dean and braced himself against the doorframe, grimacing as he swallowed the burning bodily fluid back down.

"Sam?" Dean half-shouted, grabbing onto Sam's shoulders.

"I'm fine," Sam lied. "Just drank that coffee too fast, is all."

"You sure?"

"No. I mean, yes," Sam lied again. "I don't remember…" he took a deep breath. "…anything. I don't remember anything. I didn't have any other dreams."

Dean did not look entirely convinced, but like Sam, he could feel the clock ticking. He guessed that if Sam had something really important on his mind, he would be able to share it. At least he hoped so.

"Let's get moving, then," Dean said, picking up the tourist brochure from the table as well as the printouts of some of the off-the-record information they had downloaded from the internet.

Before Sam could turn away again, Dean pulled him in for a quick kiss on the lips.

"You and me," he said seriously. It was all he had to say.

"You and me," Sam agreed, smiling. It was far from his brightest possible smile, but it was closer than anything Dean had seen since coming to Sedona, and he was relieved by it.

He snapped off the air conditioner and followed his little brother out of the motel room. It wasn't until looking back on this moment later that he was able to appreciate getting one last chance to kiss Sam's beautiful lips.

* * *

They packed light, knowing that carrying too much weight in the desert heat could literally kill them, but even with only the bare essentials, Sam's bag felt like it weighed a ton. He had already stripped down to his tank top, and was now dousing his shirt with water from the canteen before tying the plaid material around his head. The cold water running down his face was a short but wonderful reprieve from the heat that seemed to pulse claustrophobically around him.

"You want to hold onto as much water as you can, kiddo," Dean said without turning around. "God only knows how long we'll be out here."

Sam had been following Dean through a wasteland of sand, cactus, and a multitude crippled plateaus. The blue of the sky above was the only color he could make out after all this time in the sun. Everything else seemed to be in black and white.

"Do you know where we're going?" Sam asked between dehydrated breaths. He noticed the sweat-soaked map hanging limply from Dean's back pocket.

If Dean answered, Sam didn't hear it.

"Dean? I don't mean to say that we're lost, but let's be honest. If you don't know where we're headed, it might be smart for us to turn back. 'Cause, you know. Heat stroke and all."

Again Dean didn't offer an audible response. One of Sam's shirt sleeves hung down the side of his head, and he used it to wipe the already hot water from his face.

"How long have we been out here?" he asked.

He glanced at his watch, then stopped in his tracks when he realized it had stopped working.

"Um, Dean?"

Finally, Dean stopped walking and turned around with a self-satisfied smirk. "Is this the first time you're noticing that?" he asked, holding up his own wrist watch, also presumably dead.

Sam's eyes darted sideways, and his lip curled sheepishly. "It's hot," he muttered.

Dean chuckled. "Energy vortexes mess with electronics," he said matter-of-factly. "How do you think I knew we were on the right track?"

"I'll never doubt you again," Sam droned dutifully.

"You better not. Also," Dean added, running a single finger down the tanned skin of Sam's hard upper arm, "very nice."

Then he turned around and continued walking. Sam jogged along to keep up with him.

"I can't believe you can think about sex in this heat," Sam joked.

"It's a gift."

* * *

Ten minutes later, or maybe an hour, and they were still walking.

"Would one freaking breeze be so much to ask?" Sam pleaded with the mercilessly blue sky. He mopped his face with his shirt sleeve again, which was now so drenched that he only succeeded in getting himself wetter.

Dean was leading them straight to a particularly crooked orange plateau with a thick base about twenty feet in diameter. It twisted itself up to the sky at strange angles and arcs, reaching nearly sixty feet high, where at its highest point, it was an accusing red finger pointing directly north. Sam had to wonder if it was technically a plateau if it didn't have a flat top. It didn't look like any of the other plateaus in sight.

Taking the rest of the distance at a fast jog, Dean laughed triumphantly, slapping the rock formation with his palm excitedly. "Sammy! We're here!"

Sam dragged his heavy feet to where Dean stood and bent over, leaning against his own thighs as he coughed up a lungful of dust. "And where is here?" he gagged.

Dean's smile diminished only slightly. "Well…" he began. "I don't actually know, truth be told. But this is it. I know it."

Sam grabbed Dean's wrist and forcefully pulled it toward himself, looking down at Dean's watch.

"Hey!" Dean protested. "Ow, Sam! What the hell?"

"Dean, our watches haven't worked in the last…" he glanced at his own watch out of habit, then threw Dean's arm away from himself angrily when he remembered that his didn't work either. "Fuck!"

"Dude, take a breath," Dean said quietly.

"I would fucking love to, Dean! I really would!" Sam blasted. "But we've been walking for hours, and my lungs are full of dirt, and I'm out of water!"

"I told you to conserve—"

"Shut it!" Sam interrupted. "Dean, you don't have any idea where we are, do you? You haven't looked at the map in at least two miles, and all we have to go on is that there's some kind of magnetic energy field messing up our watches, which, by the way, doesn't mean a damn thing!"

Rather than responding, which he certainly looked like he wanted to, Dean squeezed his mouth shut and waited for Sam to get it all out.

"So unless you know something that you're not telling me, we are lost in the middle of nowhere with endless hours of daylight left, hardly any water, and we're no closer to saving your soul than when we got here."

Just a flicker. Just a hint of a blink. The sun was so bright, and Sam's eyes were so tired that he could have been imagining it, but he could swear he saw something cross Dean's face that wasn't supposed to be there.

Something hidden.

"Dean?" he asked insistently.

Another twitch.

"Yeah?" Dean responded.

"You know something, don't you."

They stared each other in the eye for a long time, sweat running relentlessly down both of their flushed faces until Dean finally broke the eye contact.

"I don't know what I know," he informed the ground at his feet.

"You're going to have to be a little more specific than that."

"Or what?" Dean blurted reflexively.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Or I'll pants you. Dean, don't be a bitch."

"I think a man on his way to eternal damnation gets a few extra bitch points," Dean murmured, but he didn't push the issue. "Sammy, I didn't want to scare you."

"Well, that's about the most unhelpful thing I've ever heard," Sam scoffed. "Scare me? Have you seen our lives lately? Just tell me what you know, and we'll figure it out."

_And then I'll rip you a new asshole for lying to me,_ he added silently.

"I've been having these impulses," Dean confessed.

"Impulses," Sam repeated tightly.

"I don't know how else to explain them. I don't know where it's coming from or what it is. All I know is that since we got to Arizona, I just know what to do."

When Sam didn't answer, Dean tried to explain further.

"I just… I know what to do, Sam. It's the weirdest feeling. I mean, I don't know what I'm going to do before I do it, but once I start doing it, I know that it's right. It's like every step I take—"

"—is taking you," Sam finished, sighing deeply as he buried his face in his hands.

"No, Sammy, don't be upset," Dean urged, holding onto Sam's shoulders. "This is a good thing! I feel great! I mean, as good as I can feel under the circumstances. For the first time in months, I feel like I have something to hold onto. Well… other than you, of course."

He attempted to force a smile from his brother, but Sam wouldn't be moved.

"It's a good thing," Dean repeated in a near whisper, beginning to doubt his own words because of the dark look on Sam's face.

"Dean, is there another reason you asked me about my visions this morning?" he inquired slowly.

Another of those damn flickers in Dean's eyes, and Sam threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Oh, fuck me!" Sam yelled into the empty air. "You've been having fucking visions? And you didn't tell me?"

"No! Not visions, Sam, no. Just…"

"An uncanny ability to know exactly what to do at exactly the right time," Sam supplied.

"…yeah," Dean breathed.

"Dean, that's what it feels like to act on the information you've received from a vision. Even if you can't remember the vision. That sense that you're headed in the right direction, so much so that you almost feel like you've—"

"—Like you've been there before," Dean finished. "Oh, fuck me!"

"Exactly."

"Why didn't I tell you sooner?"

"Exactly!"

"This is bad news, little brother. How in the _hell_ am _I_ having visions?"

"And why didn't your visions tell you that I would fucking kill you if you kept this from me?" Sam asked.

Dean put his hands out in a gesture of surrender, pleading silently with his eyes full of regret.

Sam ran a hand down his face and then leaned both palms against the plateau, wishing like hell that it could be an hour from now so that there would be even a tiny bit of shade to hide under. "Do you remember the actual visions? Anything at all?"

Dean shook his head.

"This is why you wanted to go to that bar last night, isn't it?" Sam guessed.

"I should have said something," Dean inserted apologetically.

"And you really did take off with that bimbo."

"No!" Dean trumpeted. "I swear, Sam, I don't have any memory of that. Of her. I would never lie to you about that."

Sam shook his head, his eyes full of sweat and tears of fatigue. "It seems the things you're willing to lie about have yet to be determined."

Dean's face went even redder, if that was possible, and he wiped a waterfall of sweat away from his forehead as he stared at his brother through intense and bloodshot eyes.

"Sam, I'm telling you now. On my _grave_, I have no idea who that girl is. I have no memory of seeing her or talking to her."

Sam regarded Dean uncomfortably. Two awkward conversations in one day were bad enough, but this _motherfucking_ _heat_. He felt an impetus to take off his tank top, hell, his _skin, _but he knew it wouldn't do any good.

They stared at each other for another uncomfortable span of minutes before Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

"So what do we do?" he asked. He hated showing his little brother how totally lost he was, but he didn't know how else to play it. "You've been down Vision Alley. What happens next?"

"Jesus," Sam said quietly. "I never thought I'd hear that question from you."

"Sam…"

"What do you feel like doing?" Sam asked simply.

"What do you mean?"

"It's not a difficult question to answer, Dean. What do you want to do?"

The look on Dean's face indicated that he was waiting for more.

"No, really," Sam assured him. "You want to know what it's like to live with visions? This is it. Sorry if it's not as glamorous as you had hoped. It's pretty much what you've already described to me. If you've had a vision, whether you remember it or not, you basically have to do whatever you feel like doing in order to figure it all out. You have to just deal with the fact that you know what to do even though you don't really know what to do, and then do it."

Silence.

"That's fucked up," Dean whispered.

"That's life."

"That's…" Dean started.

"That's exactly what you've been doing for the last day and a half and lying to me about it," Sam said in a deep, cutting monotone. "You suddenly getting squeamish?"

With a nod, Dean scratched the back of his head loudly. "That's fair."

Sam echoed the nod, and then looked at his brother curiously. "So what do you feel like doing?"

Dean looked back at him, apprehensively unbuttoning his own shirt and pulling it down over his bulbous shoulders.

_We're wearing matching undershirts, _he was tempted to joke.

_That's because we shop at the same Wal-Marts,_ he chided himself. This heat was messing him up.

He jumped slightly at the sound of metal grating against metal, then realized that it was Sam unscrewing his canteen. Sam tipped the canteen over his lips, and Dean watched as a single, shining drop fell lazily onto the middle of Sam's chin.

Sensing that Sam was about to chuck the canteen away in frustration, Dean grabbed it out of his brother's hand.

"Use mine," he said, offering Sam his own canteen which was still mostly full.

The same ungodly squeaking sound of the cap unscrewing, made even more intolerable by the absolute silence of the desert, overlaid with the uneasiness of their conversation, and then the slurping sound of Sam drinking greedily of Dean's water.

"Good," Sam commented, taking another long swallow.

Dean hesitated, wanting Sam to drink as much as he needed, but they had a long journey back, and he didn't want to run out of water completely. He put his hand on Sam's forearm again, and Sam obediently lowered the canteen from his mouth.

A few stray drops of water dripped over Sam's cracked bottom lip, and Dean felt the inexplicable urge to lean forward and lick them up. Not because he was turned on.

Because he was fucking thirsty.

Sam offered the canteen back, and Dean wrapped his hand around it. They stood for a long time, both of them with a hand on the canteen, staring at nothing, thinking about nothing. The desert watched on, quiet and uncaring, the air around them totally still, the sun unwavering, the suffocating heat holding them tightly like a blanket of hot iron.

"Mmmmmm," Dean hummed a note quietly.

"Mmm?" Sam asked.

"…ward Christian soldiers… mmm…" Dean half sung, half hummed.

"Hmm," Sam grinned appreciatively.

Dean brought the canteen to his lips and drank deeply. It was unlike anything he'd ever tasted. There was nothing like being unhealthily thirsty to make water taste like the nectar of the gods.

"I don't even like water," he said with a soft giggle. "I prefer flavor."

"Water has a flavor," Sam slurred. "It tastes like water."

"Which tastes like nothing."

"So why don't they call it nothing?"

In any other setting, a breeze would have swept through their stilted exchange. But here, in the center of the desert, in the center of their profound and wretched discontent, there was nothing. Nothing. Only deadness. Only a silence so bottomless that it made their ears ring.

"Who's they?" Dean asked.

They both laughed stupidly.

"I'm not going to be okay," Sam moaned, suddenly serious, his face scrunching up as if about to cry, "if you leave me."

He stumbled forward and put his head on Dean's shoulder, taking a deep breath of Dean's body odor.

"Sammy…"

"We have to do something. You're the only thing."

"Sam. Baby."

"You're the only thing I have left."

"Something's not here. Sammy? I mean. Something's not right."

"Of Mom."

"Sammy baby."

"Of Dad."

"What do I feel like doing?"

"You smell like me," Sam whispered heavily into Dean's ear.

Dean pulled back far enough to look at Sam's face.

Sam's drooping, tired face.

"Sam. We're stoned."

Silence.

"Onward, Christian sold…" Sam began to sing, then looked at Dean with ravaged eyes.

"She drugged us." Dean felt like he was pushing the words through a mouthful of molasses.

"The girl at the bar," Sam wheezed. "You remember her."

"No," Dean replied honestly. "But I just know."

Sam leaned his forehead weakly against his brother's.

"Fucking twat," Sam whispered.

And then Dean was alone.


	6. To Unearth You

A/N: These chapters always take me longer than I expect them to. Thanks for sticking with me, and enjoy the new installment. More is coming.

Spoilers: Everything up to the end of season 3 is fair game, with possible vague references to season 4.

* * *

And then Dean was.

And then Dean was alone.

And then.

And then Dean.

Had it gotten hotter out here?

And then Dean.

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut until he saw stars, then opened them again, trying to regain his train of thought.

Was alone.

_What? Who's alone?_

And then.

He shook his head again.

"Sammy, what was I just talking about?" he asked irritably.

And then Dean was alone.

"Sammy?" he asked again.

His knees felt watery and unstable beneath the weight of his pack, and he leaned heavily against the plateau behind him.

Against the streetlamp behind him.

And then Dean was alone.

Streetlamp?

He turned around and stared at what was indeed a streetlamp. An average, run of the mill streetlamp with a flickering blue sodium light casting sickly shadows in the dark night around him.

"Hey, Sammy, did you notice there's a freaking streetlamp out here?" he asked, laughing.

He turned around to get Sam's response and was momentarily blinded by the harsh daylight that greeted his sensitive eyes. Surprised, he turned back to face the lamp. In this direction, it was very much nighttime, and the lamp's glow was the only light for miles around.

He turned around again, squinting against the desert sun.

"Hey, Sammy," he repeated a little less jovially, "did you notice that it's freaking night over here?"

His eyes gradually adjusted to the light, and he realized that he was talking to the empty space where Sam had been.

"Sam?" he asked slowly. His voice sounded deeper coming out of him, like he was talking in slow motion.

He turned once more to the lamp behind him, its flickering light buzzing tiredly in the darkness.

"Hey, lamp," he whispered worriedly. "Did you notice that Sam is gone?"

"Who's Sam?" the lamp replied.

"My brother, idiot," Dean snapped. Then, upon realizing he had just received a verbal response from a lamp, "Oh, fuck."

"Language, Dean," he heard his mom's soft voice cooing across the dining room table.

"Dean?" John Winchester asked gently, a tone of voice that Dean had forgotten John was capable of. "Everything okay, soldier?"

Dean looked down at his plate, empty but for the untouched pile of peas. He looked at the fork in his hand, at how small his hand suddenly appeared to him. He noticed how he had to sit with exaggerated posture to be able to look over the table at his parents' concerned faces.

"Dean," John repeated more firmly, grabbing Dean's attention with his elevated volume. "What is it?"

"Sam…" Dean whispered desperately, shocked at the high pitch of his voice.

"Your brother's right over there, baby," Mary said gently.

Dean followed her pointing finger with his eyes to a high chair next to the table, where baby Sam sat, snoring quietly with his head bowed against his chest, macaroni and cheese dripping down his chin and onto his tiny blue overalls.

Whatever Dean had been worried about, he quickly forgot it as the comedy of his little brother's predicament struck him so intensely that he laughed until he couldn't breathe.

And then Dean was alone.

And still laughing next to the lamp until the bitter cold of the desert night filled his lungs with ice crystals, and his laugh turned into a painful, crunching cough. He turned his focus back to where Sam had stood, breathing in the warmth of the sunlit air, still dusty, but at least the heat was soothing to his airways.

"Sam, you're too quiet. When are you going to—"

He again realized he was talking to empty air. He turned around.

"Sam, when are you going to—"

He was talking to the lamp.

"Fuck!"

"Who's Sam?" the lamp asked again.

"Don't fucking talk to me! You're a fucking lamp!" he yelled.

"You spoke first," the lamp said, sounding hurt.

He stumbled away from the lamp/plateau and back into the sunlight. The warmth and brightness, while shocking, felt soothing and familiar. He moved in the direction he assumed Sam had gone, but the farther he walked, the less like himself he felt. His stomach became heavy, and his pack was like a magnet drawn to the earth, and when spiraling sparks of oblivion began to cloud his vision, he turned back and hurried to the plateau which was now most definitely a plateau.

And with every step he took toward it

And then Dean was.

he felt his stomach and his body feeling lighter and better and

Then Dean.

and then he reached the plateau

Lamp.

And then Dean was alone.

"And now you're a fucking lamp," he said to the silvery post, the lamp's light sputtering heinously in the blackness.

"I was born this way," the lamp whined.

"Weren't we all," Dean complained, rolling his eyes as he leaned his head against the cool metal.

"He wasn't," the lamp said coolly, its ethereal light shining singularly on a spot twenty meters away, illuminating a green park bench amid the rocky rubble.

Sam lay on the bench, a tiny, vulnerable baby wrapped in blankets as a silhouetted figure stood over him, holding its dripping, slashed wrist to Sam's mouth.

Dean cried out. He felt his vocal cords stretch and vibrate. He felt his face turn hot. He felt the veins in his forehead bulging and pulsating.

And he heard nothing. Not even his own screaming voice.

When the tears cleared from his eyes, the park bench was empty again but for a petite young woman with long dark hair and pale skin, sitting almost apologetically, smashed against the arm rest.

"She's the one you want to talk to," Lamp said quietly.

"Wonderful."

"I'm truly sorry, Dean."

He looked at the lamp again, feeling the sincerity of its words. "Thank you," he whispered.

Then, before he realized he had made the decision to do so, Dean was stumbling (floating?) toward the girl on the bench. The glow that illuminated her body flickered and changed as he came closer, one minute a light brighter than the sun, the next, the rusty, unreliable quiver of a campfire. Her visage changed along with the lighting, and unless Dean's eyes were tricking him, the girl was aging before his eyes. She became a stout, elderly woman, skin like dark, wrinkled leather, hair long, braided, and white, jowls framing her ancient frown like slabs of dried meat.

And then, in a change so quick Dean didn't see it happen, she was the young woman again, pale and shy, seeming to pull herself even closer to the armrest as he approached. As if she feared he would punish her for taking up what little space her small body required.

And then Dean was.

And then Dean was sitting on the opposite end of the bench. Steam rose from his nose as he breathed, a piercing cold reaching right down to his heart, filling his throat with scratchy sharpness, and he looked up at the lamp, now gaudily adorned with long, dripping icicles. He tried to laugh and coughed instead.

"It's not supposed to be this cold in the desert," he whispered.

"It's not," the girl replied.

And when he turned to her, he saw that she was now tightly wrapped in a short red dress and bright red heels, crossing her legs elegantly as she stretched her milky arm across the back of the bench. Her fingers danced flirtatiously close to Dean's shoulder, and he realized that he could breathe easily again.

His cock stirred in his pants at the smell of her perfume, and he winced as he saw Sam standing next to the lamp in stark silhouette, shoulders tense with reprehension, hands balled into fists.

"Sammy," he whispered pleadingly.

"He likes to watch," the girl said, eyeing Dean's tented pants lustfully.

"What are you doing to me?" Dean whispered, ripping his eyes away from the specter of his brother so that he could stare threateningly at the girl. His stomach dropped as her face threw him into untold fits of sexual desire.

"Unearthing you," the girl answered.

"Yyyyy," Dean tried to say. "You fucking drugged mmmeee."

He wiped a bubbling line of drool from his chin.

"I unearth you," the girl repeated. "I open your mind. To the answers."

Her nipples became hard and pointed beneath her dress, and nothing would have made Dean happier than to plant his lips around one of them and suck for all he was worth.

"Aaaaaah! Stop that!" he screamed.

"You're so determined to make your feelings my responsibility," she answered with a sort of bored curiosity. "Is this what the New Faith has brought us to? Tiny, disconnected mortals pushing dirt around, believing the lie of powerlessness?"

"Not powerless…" Dean slurred, forcing his gaze away from the girl's body. "Fucking kill you…"

"So _that's_ how you deal with it," the girl sighed. "And next you'll say I asked for it. That I shouldn't have dressed so scantily."

Dean attempted to rise from the bench, but his stomach had become so heavy and full of squirming fire that he couldn't move. He breathed deeply and focused on the lamp again, marginally grateful that Sam was now nowhere in sight.

"Please," he breathed slowly. "Just give me my brother back."

"But isn't that why we're here?" she asked.

"You fucking drugged…"

"Oh, _stop!_" the girl wailed, standing up suddenly and grabbing Dean's wrists, pulling him to his wobbling feet. "Yes, I put an herb in your water. Can we get past it already? I am _not_ a demon. You came here for answers, and you spit in the face of one who tries to give them! Do you _want_ to burn in hell?"

Her voice became deeper and her eyes became blacker and the spit flying from her mouth was tinged with red like blood, red like hellfire.

"Demon!" Dean growled.

"STOP!" she growled back, wrapping a cold, clawed hand around his balls.

He gasped at the painful pressure, then released his breath as her grip loosened.

"Stop," she said more gently. "Liiiiiissssssten."

It came out like a hiss, and Dean wanted desperately to resist, but he could feel the sweet caress of her breath on his face and the soft pulsing of her fingers over his crotch. He involuntarily laid his head back and allowed her to continue. She lowered him down to the bench and climbed atop him as she whispered into his ear.

"I am many things," she said. "I am millennia of the passage of ancient wisdom. I am the rise and fall of a dwindling race."

"Don't…" Dean pleaded as his penis became hard under her stroking hand.

"I am the recipient of tradition, the holder of Knowledge. I am as old as the evil that, even now, is trying to claim you for its own."

"You _are_ the evil…" Dean began, then cried out again as she squeezed his cock painfully. He caught his breath as she loosened her hold and, once more, began to stroke him.

"I am _helping _you, you fucking wiseass," she breathed.

Upon hearing such frank words, Dean looked the girl straight in the eye. And that was when he remembered her.

He remembered her from the night before, remembered how she had been in the bar, and how as soon as he had seen her, he knew that she was exactly what he was looking for, exactly the reason he had been drawn to that bar in the first place.

He remembered how he had told Sam to wait for him, and how Sam had amiably agreed.

He remembered walking over to the girl, not pale and dainty like she appeared now, but tan and strong, like a Native warrior. How she had whispered to him over the din. How she had touched his chest. How he had been filled with the knowingness that she knew how to save him.

And how it was imperative that nobody know it. Not even Dean, himself.

"You took my memory," he marveled.

"_Altered_ you memory," she corrected. "I couldn't risk you or you brother knowing…

"…what you're doing to me," Sam said.

Dean looked down at his little brother, Sam's dark hair splayed over the pillow, his lips swollen from kisses, his skin flush and fat with youth.

"Mom and Dad can't ever know," he repeated anxiously, and Dean looked down to see Sam's hard dick twitching with need.

"This isn't real," Dean sputtered, his voice, again, higher than expected.

He noticed a mirror across the room, the same room that he had occupied as a child, the same mirror he had looked into every morning. But this time, the mirror showed him lying naked on top of his naked brother, both of them teenagers, and young Sam reaching hungrily up for more attention.

"This isn't real," Dean said again. "This never happened."

"But you wanted it to," Sam taunted. "What kind of brother are you?"

"No, I didn't!" he shrieked, and he was back on the bench, being fondled by a hot girl/old woman who was still perched on top of him.

"…what was happening to you," she finished.

"Huh?" he whined.

"The road out of hell is sad and forgetful."

Long minutes passed as Dean digested her words. All along the way, her hand rubbed up and down his clothed shaft, and her breath ran sweetly down his neck, reminding him of the sweetness of a woman's touch. Theforgetfulness of it. How easy it was to bury himself inside some random, soft thing and disregard the fact that he was on the brink of death or worse every day of his mortal life.

And somehow, the forgetfulness wasn't enough anymore. Because he had since experienced _more_.

"Please stop," he begged, reaching for her talented hand.

"You have to want me to stop," she said.

"I do. I really do."

And immediately, she was sitting across the bench from him again, seeming to cower against her armrest, pulling her modest clothes about her tightly. Her oversized red jacket hung sloppily over her sagging khaki pants.

He looked at her breathlessly.

"What. The fucking. _Fuck_?" he asked.

And then a million disembodied voices sang loudly into the night, "Onward Christian soldiers…"

"Fuck!" Dean screeched, falling to the ground. "What are you trying to do, kill me?"

"I'm a Christian," Lamp said sadly.

"Nobody's fucking talking to you!" Dean yelled.

"Control your thoughts," the girl urged, reaching toward him.

"Control this, whore!"

He scrambled to get away from her claw-like hand, but it grew larger and larger until it was big enough to wrap itself around his whole body, effectively erasing him from the outside world.

And then he was enveloped in a darkness so unspeakable that even blindness wasn't a strong enough word to describe it.

He was still.

He couldn't feel or see or smell.

Nothing existed except for his consciousness, his awareness of the void. A voice that was less a voice and more of a knowing arose within him.

_there is not one part of you that is not steeped in lust_

_anger_

_fear_

_physical_

_noisy _

_thought_

_misguided _

_unenlightened _

where am i, he attempted to ask

_not anywhere_

i can't feel

_what you do in the name of fear_

_of saving your brother from_

where is my brother

_you know nothing of what awaits you_

where is sam

_he opens you to the end of the world_

where is sam

_and i speak to you dean winchester_

_in this place because only here_

_you can hear me_

_you can hear that i am here to help you_

_apart from your expectations_

_from your determination to make me beautiful_

_or evil_

_or old_

_or_

where is sam

_i mislead you to unearth you_

And then Dean was facing his brother, both of them sweating buckets next to the plateau, the sun scorching their skin, white tank tops soaked through with sweat, one canteen held loosely between their two hands. Sam stared robotically back at him as if waiting for instructions.

"I love you with every piece of my heart," Dean swore, as he pushed Sam aside and allowed the girl standing behind his brother to come into focus, looking very plain again.

"You're finally catching on," she said.

The desert was hot and dry and normal.

"You've been," Dean started.

"Everything you've expected me to be," she finished. "We are in your mind."

"So when I totally wanted to stick it in you…"

"Your fault," she said.

"Thought I was done with that," Dean sighed.

"Yeah."

_But I love Sam,_ he reminded himself.

"Your thoughts are like thunder," she mused.

"Don't." Dean pleaded. "_Plea…_"

…_se, big brother,_ Sam said.

And Dean was staring down into Sam's beautiful eyes, in Dean's childhood bed again, but this time they were both grown, and he fell into his brother's neck gratefully, breathing in the damp skin.

"I can't…" Dean sobbed.

"You made a deal to pull your brother back from death," Sam whispered sweetly.

Dean nodded against his neck.

"And the price was your soul," Sam stated carefully.

"I'd do anything for you, Sammy boy," Dean whimpered weakly.

"Then control your thoughts," Sam commanded.

And then he was sitting in the bar from the night before. The girl sat next to him, sipping steaming, stinking liquid from a clay bowl. He looked around himself in awe as everything moved so slowly that time seemed to have nearly stopped. The raucous group around the dart board was perfectly silent, some of them drinking beer, some frozen in an inaudible and gleeful shout, one standing near the center of the commotion with his hand raised. The dart he had just thrown was suspended eleven inches away from his extended fingertips, nearly imperceptibly progressing toward the bull's eye, the dart's pink plastic feathers trailing tiny displaced ripples of air behind it.

The bartender was pouring a shot of dark liquor, the liquid hanging solidly between the bottle and the glass.

"Is that for me?" Dean asked hopefully, relieved to find that he was operating at normal speed despite the stillness around him.

"Drink this," the girl said, sliding the bowl in front of him. "It'll help with your hangover."

"I don't have a hangover," he argued.

"You will."

He glared at the girl and then grabbed the bowl, grimacing as the bitter concoction burned his tongue and vibrated angrily down his esophagus.

"Great," he mumbled, wiping his mouth. "Demon detox."

"I'm not a demon," the girl said.

"It's just an expression," he replied.

"I am not evil."

"I was kidding, okay?" Dean snapped. "Learn to take a fucking joke."

The girl stared back at him, seeming completely unaffected by his words, and he only became angrier.

"Do you realize that I still don't know who you are?" he ranted. "Or why you're dragging me around on this vision quest from hell? Or what in God's name any of this has to do with saving my soul?"

"You made a deal to pull your brother back from death," she said softly.

"Yeah, you said that already. When you were wearing my brother's face. Bitch," he snarled. "And I swear to Christ if anything happens to him while I'm stuck here with you, I'll…"

He trailed off as the girl pointed a steady finger at the other end of the bar where Dean and Sam had sat the night before. Dean turned to look and jumped as he was confronted once more with the sight of baby Sam. His high chair was pulled right up to the bar, and this time, rather than sleeping, he was happily devouring his bowl of macaroni and cheese with his bare hands.

"Your brother is fine, for now," the girl said.

Dean couldn't speak through the lump in his throat, and thankfully, the girl didn't press him to.

"You'll want to get control of your thoughts, and quickly," she advised. "You will not be under the herb's influence for much longer, and we waste time bouncing around your restless brain."

He did as she suggested and steeled himself in the moment, ripping his eyes away from his baby brother and staring down at the clay bowl on the bar in front of him. He felt some relief as his surroundings seemed to solidify into a stronger reality.

"Okay," he breathed. "Let's talk, then. Why don't you start by explaining to me why it has to be this way? Why couldn't you just talk to me in the bar last night?"

"I did."

"But you drugged me and removed my memory of it."

"To unearth you."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"No earthbound being on his way to hell has ever knowingly escaped his fate," she stated, looking at him seriously with big brown eyes. Dean gulped. "The herb I gave you, combined with the energy of the vortexes, removes you from earthly consciousness without you actually _losing_ consciousness."

"I don't get it," Dean confessed.

"You can't _knowingly_ escape hell."

He thought about that. "So…You're saying we're off the radar right now."

"That's one way of putting it, yes."

"And you're the reason I've been having visions," Dean accused.

The girl's eyes wandered back to her hands. She seemed nervous.

"Why?" Dean pressed. "If you were just going to roofie me anyway, why plant all this shit in my head?"

"I didn't," she whispered. "We shouldn't talk about that."

"We're in _my_ brain, sister," Dean growled, "and we'll talk about whatever I damn well—"

"We cannot talk about the transference," she whispered worriedly.

"The trans—"

"What you and your family do together is your business," she breathed so quietly that Dean strained to hear her. She glanced past him at baby Sam and went on. "I personally don't care either way. But the Tribe…"

She trailed off, and Dean felt a tingling up his spine at the look of terror in her eyes.

"They can't know that you and Sam are…" Deep breath. "They won't let me help you if they know all that has been going on."

"_They_," Dean muttered. "Transference," he added. "Tribe?" he concluded, and in classic Dean fashion, he got up from his stool and strode over to where the bartender still stood pouring his dark liquor.

Dean grabbed the shot glass out from under the bottle and marveled at how the pouring liquid remained almost perfectly still but the shot in his hand came into real time now that he was holding it.

"Works for me," he said, and inhaled the shot.

Jager. Perfect.

"We are running out of time," the girl said softly.

"And I am running out of reasons not to slit your throat," Dean answered. "I mean, how do I know that while we're here in Candyland enjoying the Necco wafer bridges and butterscotch rivers, you're not off somewhere taking advantage of my unconscious body?"

"Dean."

"Not that I would blame you," he added, running a hand down his muscular chest.

"Your charm won't save you, little man."

"Who the fuck you calling _little_?"

"The Tribe told me I was wasting my time," she shook her head.

He sat down beside her, annoyed that she wouldn't fight back. He began playing with his empty shot glass. His eyes suddenly felt heavy and itchy and old.

"Who is this Tribe?" he asked.

"It matters not," she said.

"Who are you?"

"I am Medicine Woman."

"Like Native American medicine?"

"Of a kind."

"Human?"

"Long story."

"Do you have a name?"

"Do you care?"

Dean chuckled. "I'll drink to that."

He focused his attention on the bar in front of him, and a fresh bottle of whisky appeared on the spot, real enough for him to see and touch and drink.

"Well, fuck me," he said excitedly.

He poured himself another shot as the girl continued to watch him with eyes that now seemed wiser than her years should allow.

"But I told them that you were worth saving, that you had great potential for good," she said with the barest hint of a smile.

"I don't understand any of this," Dean answered. "Why would you save me? And if you tell me it matters not—"

"My brothers and sisters are dying," she interrupted. "This planet, our Mother, is dying. Our ancestors weep for us. Thousands of years of wisdom nearly completely lost under the suffocating dust of industry and displacement and the New Faith."

"Hmm," Dean said softly, hoping he wouldn't offend her by pouring himself another drink.

"You know that we are in the spirit world right now?"

"I kinda figured," he nodded.

"You know that all of the spirit world is reactive to the minds of man? You know that before your people came to our land and raped my ancestors of their beliefs, we did not have cause to fear your hell or your demons or your tiny, petulant God?"

Dean thought this over. "Are you telling me that whatever we believe is going to happen to us after we die is exactly what will happen to us?" he asked hopefully.

The girl sighed. "If only it were that simple."

She held out her hand for the fresh shot of whisky Dean had just poured for himself. He smiled at her, actually starting to like her for the first time since meeting her, and handed her the glass. She downed it like a pro and wiped her mouth daintily.

"There are hierarchies upon hierarchies," she resumed. "The architecture of belief and its effect on the outer realms is a story that no amount of time would be enough to tell about, for it does not exist within time. But in simpler terms, as more of my people forgot who they were, and as more of your people imposed their identities upon us, the more the spirit world began to conform to the new order. The New Faith."

She pushed the shot glass back to Dean, and he refilled it, handing it back to her slowly.

"Sorry," he said genuinely, apologizing for the cruelty of his ancestors.

"Me, too."

A pause followed which Dean did not allow to last long. The absolute silence of the motionless bar around them was too much for him to bear. Like sound had never existed. Like nothing had ever moved. It terrified him.

"So this is a revenge thing, huh?" he attempted to joke. "Damn the white devil for screwing your great grandparents and all that? Undermine the New Faith?"

She didn't respond.

"And here I thought you were saving me because of my good looks," he smiled goofily.

"I'm not saving you."

His breath caught in his throat.

"But…" he stuttered. "You just said—"

"I am keeping you out of hell, yes. But it will not feel much like salvation."

Dean swallowed loudly, anger growing in his belly at the sensation of hot tears in his eyes.

"Would you care to clarify that, or are you just going to leave me hanging in suspense?" An edge of pleading crept into his voice that made him want to punch something.

"The road out of hell is sad and forgetful," she said.

"Yeah, you mentioned that."

"The structure of this particular realm…of Hell…is not easily defied, Dean Winchester."

His skin tightened in goose bumps at the stern inflection of his name.

"No earthbound being on his way to hell…" she began.

"Has ever knowingly escaped his fate," Dean finished for her. "Yadda yadda yadda. I remember that, too. But you still haven't told me what it means."

"You can't _know_ that you have escaped your fate," she stated. "You have to believe that you are still on your way to damnation. If there is a lie within you, if there exists anywhere in your heart the knowledge that you are defying the rules as they stand, you will be found out and you will be taken."

Dean reached for the whisky bottle again, but his hand was shaking too much to lift it.

"I…I can't _know_?" he repeated.

"You want to be saved, don't you?" the girl asked.

"But…but I can't _know_?" he said again. "That means I won't remember—"

"Anything we've talked about here."

"But…"

He turned around to gaze at little Sammy, who once again had fallen asleep in his macaroni. Peaceful and ignorant.

"This is going to ruin us," Dean whispered. "If we still think that I'm damned…"

"Feelings change," the girl suggested. "Damnation is forever. Wouldn't you rather live and be free, even if you don't know how it happened?"

"I won't even know _that_ it happened!" Dean argued.

"You will eventually come to accept your freedom. Give it time."

"Listen, sweetheart, I appreciate everything you're doing for me here, but you _really_ don't know me. There is no way I'll be able to let this go. I'll go crazy trying to get to the bottom of it. And Sammy…" He choked on the name. "This is going to _kill_ us," he whispered fervently.

She got up from her stool and moved closer to Dean, putting a very warm hand on his shoulder. The warmth penetrated his skin and found its way down into Dean's heart, temporarily filling his body and mind with love for his brother.

"Do you really think that anything could change your love for him?" she asked gently. "I see it within you and all around you so clearly. He is the very air you breathe."

"That's exactly the problem," Dean grunted, pushing her hand away so that he could think clearly. He was sad to feel the love within him fading back into fear. "I love him so much that I'll fuck everything up between us just to keep him safe."

He looked over at sleeping Sam again. "It wouldn't be the first time," he added.

"And what is to become of him if you're gone?" she asked. "If he has to live the rest of his life knowing that you are suffering eternal torment?"

The idea of Sam left entirely alone and drowning in misery made Dean sick to his stomach. It frightened him even more than his own death sentence, and he knew he couldn't allow it. Even if the only alternative was nearly as bad.

"There really isn't any other way?"

"You are no stranger to difficult choices, Dean Winchester. Are you not the one who gave up your own soul to save the life of your brother?"

Dean remembered the first time he saw Sammy alive again after making the crossroads deal, remembered the relief of holding his brother in his arms, of smelling his smell, of feeling Sam's heart beating against his own. He shook his head at the girl.

"That wasn't a hard choice," he said simply.

"I can see that you are a good man," she replied. "I really wish this could be different."

"I believe you," Dean said. And he did.

And he knew that he would still do anything to protect his brother, even though this time, it would probably drive a permanent wedge between them.

"And you are ready to proceed?"

"God help me," he nodded.

Without another word, the girl held her hand in front of Dean's chest with her palm facing the ceiling. For a moment, he thought she was waiting for him to put his hand in hers, but then a barely perceptible blue light began to flicker over her fingers. The light soon began to swirl around itself looking like a tiny solar system orbiting just above her hand, dividing into individual specks of bright light.

Then one of the specks became brighter than all the rest, blue and brilliant, and all of the other lights joined it, forming it into a slowly spinning globe the size of a baseball. It was Earth, rotating serenely on its axis, and Dean would be damned if he didn't get the sense that it wasn't just a replication of the planet, that somehow, this tricky broad was actually holding the whole freaking planet in the palm of her hand.

"'Unearth' me," Dean said with a whistle. "Man, you spiritual types don't lack for irony, do you?"

The glowing blue ball passed silently into his chest and took root inside of his heart, filling his lungs with cold air and his veins with hot blood. He felt as though all of his internal organs had become planets and they were now revolving around the Earth of his heart, and Dean had never in his life felt so at one with everything, nor had he ever felt so completely alone.

He allowed the tears to stream down his cheeks as all thought was removed from his mind, of Sam, of hell, of his life and identity. Everything left him. Everything became nothing, and for a few seconds that might have been all of eternity, _he _was nothing. He was nothing and nowhere. His consciousness was gone. His awareness was gone. He didn't exist. There was not now and had never been Dean Winchester.

But then he slowly came back to his body, back to the bar, back to the mysterious girl standing in front of him, and he took a deep breath. "Where did I just go?" he asked in a rough whisper.

"We are out of time," the girl said.

The bar around them was becoming misty, the colors fading softly into one another, the light dimming with a soft whooshing sound. The girl gestured to the front door which now stood wide open revealing the darkness beyond. Dean took another peek at the end of the bar and wasn't incredibly surprised to see that Sam and his high chair had disappeared. The dream was ending.

He made his way toward the door, then stopped at the threshold and turned around.

"Hey," he said. The girl turned back to look at him. "Sam said there was another guy who came here and escaped damnation. Did you do that?"

The girl grinned sadly, nodding her head.

"But he disappeared," Dean went on, his voice beginning to sound distant and muffled to his own ears. "What happened to him?"

The girl's response was so quiet that Dean had to strain to hear it:

"He remembered."


	7. Transference

A/N: The second update within one month. Is the sky falling? ;) Tell me what you think!

Spoilers: Probably through season 3, but I'm seriously messing with canon here, so everything is pretty much fair game.

* * *

"He remembered," Dean said quietly.

"What?" Sam responded.

"What?" Dean asked back.

"Who remembered?"

"What?"

"Remembered what?"

"Who remembered?"

"I'm asking you."

"Then ask me."

"Who remembered?"

"Remembered what?"

"You tell me!"

"Tell you what?"

"What the _fuck_ you're talking about!"

"What the fuck are _you_ talking about?"

"Jesus, Dean!"

"Bitch!"

"Jerk!"

They realized they were still both holding onto Dean's canteen, and Sam let go. Dean unscrewed the top to take another drink, but it was empty.

"The fuck?"

"So get to it, Dean. What do you feel like doing?"

"Huh?"

"Your vision. Somehow you knew to come to this spot in the desert. So what's our next move?"

Dean looked at the plateau behind him, then at the surrounding desert, and then back into Sam's squinting eyes.

"Right," Dean nodded, their previous conversation coming back to him. "Right, I was going to… I was, um…"

"Dean?"

"Sammy, how long have we been standing here?"

"About a minute," Sam replied. "Although in this heat, it might as well have been a century, so would you please do _something_ before I start to melt?"

Dean looked around himself again, convinced that he was missing something. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember.

"I… I don't know," he said, shrugging helplessly.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Sam demanded.

"I mean, I don't know, Sammy. I don't know what to do. And I…"

Sam folded his arms across his chest, clearly on the verge of losing his temper, but trying his best to keep himself in check. "And you what?"

Dean's mouth hung open for a long time before he found words that were even a close approximation to the emptiness he was feeling. "Something is missing, Sam."

His face was suddenly worn and pale, and Sam squeezed his shoulder. "Are you feeling okay?"

Shaking his head, Dean replied, "I don't know, Sam, I… I don't feel as sure as before. I…" His eyes filled with tears. "I feel so _sad_."

Any frustration Sam had been feeling melted away at Dean's look of forlorn helplessness, and he pulled his stinky big brother into his arms.

"Hey," he comforted gently. "It's okay, Dean. Maybe something will come to you."

Dean shook his head again, squeezing Sam's shoulder blades. "It won't," he whimpered. "It's gone. Whatever I was feeling is gone."

"Sssh," Sam soothed, running his fingernails up and down Dean's spine. "It doesn't matter, okay? We'll figure it out."

"I want to go home," Dean pined miserably.

Sam assumed he meant that he wanted to go back to the motel. But Dean's voice broke with such devastating sorrow, and it was hard to be sure. Sam glanced somewhat frantically at the emptiness around them, wishing that he would notice something, anything, that might reveal why Dean had been called to come here in the first place. Anything that could help Dean out of his deal. This damn desert was their last and best hope, and Sam had a dark feeling that if they left now, they wouldn't be back.

"Please," Dean whispered, his face pulled together against the sobs that threatened to burst through. Sam's heart broke for him.

"Come on," he said, taking Dean's hand and guiding him back in the direction they came from. "Let's go home."

Dean wiped his eyes wearily and allowed himself to be led.

* * *

Back at the motel, Sam had set up his makeshift research station at the table next to the air conditioner. He was slightly bent toward the screen, typing furiously as the manufactured wind blew through his damp hair, fresh from his shower. He occasionally glanced across the table at Dean who was seated in the other chair, absently chewing on a hangnail.

Dean's face and body were still covered in yellow desert dust, and his clothes and hair were matted to his skin with dried sweat.

"I'm done with the shower, Dean," Sam said quietly. It was the second time he had said so, but he wasn't sure Dean had heard him the first time.

"I'm fine, thanks," Dean muttered, still staring into space.

"There's some beer in the fridge, if you're thirsty," Sam added.

"Okay," Dean replied flatly, making no attempt to move.

"Oh, and I just took a pregnancy test. We're gonna be dads."

"Good," Dean sighed, not hearing a word.

Sam shook his head in frustration and went back to his research. Dean's occasional silent spells had made Sam crazy ever since they were little, especially because they always tended to happen during times where communication was vitally important. He briefly thought about throwing a balled up sock at Dean's head just to get some kind of reaction, but decided against it. Dean wasn't going to be of much help until he decided to be, and Sam had other things to think about at the moment.

Like Dean's visions. It could hardly be a coincidence that something like this would pop up a month before Dean was scheduled to die, and if Sam could figure out the cause of it, maybe it would give them another clue as to how they should proceed.

He scrolled down the search page and clicked a link that seemed promising, then drummed his fingers on the table impatiently as the impossibly slow internet clicked and ticked, taking forever to get to the next page.

Sam had no idea what had happened to Dean in the desert. One second he was confident and sure, even excited. The next moment, he was lost and emotionally crippled, almost childlike. Remembering the look of total defenselessness in Dean's eyes made Sam's stomach ripple with anxiety. Something had gone horribly wrong, and if even Dean didn't know what it was, how the hell were they supposed to fix it?

And he could practically feel every minute that clipped by bringing them that much closer to the end. The _end_.

Another painful lurch of his stomach, and he nearly pounded his fist against the table when the website finally popped up onto the screen. He read the first paragraph and gasped.

"Transference," he stated.

Dean's eyes snapped into sharp focus, and he stared at Sam intensely, sitting forward in his seat.

"What did you just say?" he asked seriously.

"Transference," Sam repeated. "I think this is why you've started having visions!" Then he looked at Dean questioningly. "Okay, wait. You won't respond to my telling you that I'm pregnant, but you respond to transference?"

"You're pregnant?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"No!"

"Then what the hell are you talking about?"

With pursed lips, Sam reached into his nearby bag after all, grabbing a balled up pair of socks and chucking them at Dean. Dean batted them away angrily.

"Dude, what the fuck? Are you on something?" Dean shouted.

"Right. Because _I'm_ the one acting like a lunatic."

Dean shook his head in bewilderment, completely unaware of all the time he had spent motionless and silent. "So, um… Transference?"

Sam rubbed his eyes and looked back down at the computer screen. He began to read aloud.

"'For in the space of sacred sight

A passage through unholy deed

Transference doth dislodge the light

Of matching blood, of equal seed

"And unto only those who must,

For sake of tribe survival, share,

Shall be allowed one spell of lust

Ere Night Bird raze the donor bare.'"

He sat back in his seat with a look of fascination and a hint if triumph on his face, as if it all made perfect and obvious sense.

Dean stared back at him dumbly for nearly a minute.

"What the blue fuck was that?" he demanded defensively.

"That's the reason you're having visions, Dean!"

"Well, you're going to have to translate, little brother. I don't speak Shakespeare."

"Pfff!" Sam scoffed. "It's _hardly _Shakespeare. The meter is totally different."

"Oh, _here_ we go," Dean said, rolling his eyes and hobbling over to the small fridge under the cabinet. He claimed one of the beers and popped the cap. "Sam, I love you very much, but this is not a good day for a dissertation."

"Well, excuse me for being academically oriented," Sam badgered. "No offense to your own prestigious education, sponsored by the Saturday morning cartoons."

Sam's going to college had been a constant sore spot to Dean, and Sam knew it. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

"Baby boy, you don't need a vision to tell you that I'm about to re-educate your fucking face."

His knuckles went white as he grasped the beer bottle, and Sam gulped.

"I didn't mean it."

"Yeah, you didn't mean to ditch me and Dad for a full ride to some rich-bitch training camp in California, but that's exactly what you did, isn't it," Dean quietly raged.

"We're not seriously having this fight again," Sam breathed, putting his face in his hands.

"Hey, you're the one going all literary snob on me."

"I can't fucking comment on a fucking poem?" Sam burst.

"You can't comment on a fucking poem without calling me an idiot in the process," Dean responded.

Sam stood up angrily, knocking his chair against the wall. "At what point did the word _idiot_ cross my lips, Dean?" he yelled. "Please. Refresh my memory."

"It didn't have to, Sammy. You sly educated types know how to slip an insult in between the cracks."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sam railed.

"You know I'm right."

"No, Dean, you're not right. You're overly sensitive."

"Fuck you! How many times have I pulled you back from emotional asphyxiation? You'd fall apart if it weren't for me, you freaking girl!"

"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed sarcastically. "'Cause telling you what I'm feeling is weak, right? At least I have the balls to say what's really going on. If you ask me, _you're_ the coward here."

"Don't, Sam, I swear to God—"

"Maybe if you had the courage to express yourself every now and then, you wouldn't end up lashing out and getting into trouble all the time!"

"It's not my fault that you constantly need me to save you, Sam!"

"And it's not _my_ fault that you did every stupid thing Dad ever told you to, and he _still _loved me more!"

Dean threw his beer onto the linoleum floor of the kitchenette and it crashed into pieces, spraying white foam and dark liquid all over the walls.

"Samuel fucking Winchester!" he screamed.

"Dad? Is that you?" Sam screamed back maniacally. "Welcome back! You look great for a corpse!"

Dean crossed the room in three long strides and backhanded Sam's face hard enough to send him crashing into the edge of the table. He took a hard blow to the ribs and then fell to the ground in a heap, gasping for air as the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Oh, fuck, Sammy," Dean worried, kneeling next to him.

Sam obstinately tried to back away, but there was nowhere for him to go.

"Sam, wait, please. I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Fucking dick," Sam whispered breathlessly.

"You're right," he agreed desperately. "I am a total fucking dick. And a complete pussy. And also an asshole. Did I get them all?"

"Fuck head," Sam gasped.

"And a fuck head, right. I'm an _enormous_ fuck head, always have been. Goddamn it, little brother, I am so sorry."

Sam looked into Dean's eyes angrily for a minute longer, then decided it wasn't worth holding onto. He was in pain and needed comfort from his brother.

As if he could clearly see Sam's thought process, Dean sat down on the floor and spread his legs open, pulling Sam close to him. Sam plopped his head against Dean's chest unhappily and continued to take loud, laborious breaths as Dean stroked his fingers up and down Sam's biceps, shedding silent tears onto the top of Sam's head.

Several minutes passed as they both reflected on similar violent outbursts that had occasionally erupted from their father years ago. But neither one of them was willing to talk about it now.

After Sam's breath had finally begun to slow down, Dean gently lifted his brother's T-shirt to examine his ribs. A handsome red welt was already forming, and he lightly poked around to see if there was any serious damage. Sam winced with pain, but allowed it.

"You're going to have a nice bruise," Dean grunted. "But I don't think anything was broken."

"I would know if something was broken," Sam whispered stubbornly.

Rather than argue, Dean kissed Sam's cheek and then his forehead and then his hair and held him even more tightly. "I love you so much, baby boy," he said emotionally. "_So_ much."

Sam nodded. "I know," he rasped.

"How did this…" Dean stuttered wonderingly. "That was the dumbest fight we've ever had."

Sam managed a slight chuckle and then a groan of pain. He touched his side gingerly, and he deepened his breathing before cuddling back into Dean's chest.

"I think we get a pass on this one. Under the circumstances."

Leaning back against the bed, Dean nodded and kissed Sam's hair again. "Let me see your face," he said.

"Dean, don't. It doesn't matter."

"Sammy, let me see it. Now."

Sam sat up so that he could look him in the eye. Dean's eyes crinkled with worry at the large red mark along Sam's right cheek. He tried to say something, but the words were escaping him.

"I said it doesn't matter," Sam repeated. "Just forget it, okay? It happened and it's over."

"I was going to spend our last month together making you happy," Dean whispered wretchedly.

"It's not our last month," Sam argued under his breath, almost as a reflex.

But after the day they had had, he really wasn't sure anymore.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Dean found himself lying in a steaming hot bath with Sam in between his legs, lying back against his chest. Both of them had fresh beers in hand, the cold bottles sweating in the moist air, and the only light in the room came from the pink-orange glow of the setting sun through the window.

They had barely spoken a word as they carefully and slowly undressed each other and as Dean had softly helped his injured brother into the bathtub. And now as Dean lay with his eyes closed and his nose buried in the intoxicating smell of Sam's sweating neck, he was momentarily lulled into a sense that everything was okay. He knew it wasn't true. But for this moment, he allowed himself to believe it anyway. It was the first real relief he had felt since arriving in town.

Sam was fading in and out of sleep, and every time he jerked awake, Dean's hard cock would spasm against him, eliciting a needful moan from Sam's throat, which only served to make Dean harder. He would give anything to carry his brother back to the bed and fuck like the world depended on it. But he didn't. He didn't even make a move.

Sam was in no condition for physical exertion, and neither of them currently possessed the emotional stability needed to deal with their first actual sex together.

_But if you're waiting for emotional stability, you may wait forever,_ cracked a wry voice in Dean's head. _Even without the supernatural shit. You're dating your fucking brother, dude._

He began to laugh softly, attempting to keep it quiet, but his pulsing diaphragm woke Sam up.

"What?" Sam started groggily.

"Nothing, baby," Dean said. "Relax."

"Are you laughing at me?" Sam asked in a whiny, sleepy, and obnoxiously adorable tone.

"Never," Dean assured him. "I'm just enjoying myself is all."

Sam tightened his grip on the beer bottle that had started to slip from his hand and brought it to his lips, taking a long drink.

"That's what I'm talking about," he said with satisfaction, causing Dean to laugh again, which caused them both to bounce, which caused Sam to laugh as well.

And then groan in pain.

"Stop being funny," he moaned.

"You stop being funny," Dean mimicked Sam's tone. He reached around Sam's chest and grabbed a handful of his pectoral muscle, squeezing gently. He breathed deeply, attempting to control his lust without much success.

"How are you so hot?" Dean asked. "You make me want to…"

He trailed off, taking a deep breath of Sam's hair.

"Commit an unholy deed?" Sam suggested.

Dean smiled. "Well, that's not exactly what I'd call it, but sure. That works."

"That's what the poem said."

"Huh?"

"The poem. About transference."

"Oh, right. The Shakespeare shit. I forgot all about that."

"It's _not_ Shakespeare, Dean," Sam said with annoyance.

"Might as well be," Dean complained. "There's not a person living who could understand a word of it."

"I understood it," Sam said simply.

Dean paused. "Really?"

"Yup."

"Hmm. But when they say unholy deed, it's obviously not about a couple of brothers doing the nasty," Dean joked, snickering at his crudeness.

"Actually…that's exactly what they mean," Sam countered.

Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Um…_what?_"

* * *

With the air conditioner whirring softly on the low setting, the boys cuddled in close under a cocoon of blankets, wearing nothing but underwear, the rest of their skin clinging together, still warm and damp from the bath. Sam's laptop rested on his thighs and Dean's head was on his shoulder.

This time it was Dean who was fading in and out of sleep as Sam looked over the website he had found earlier that day.

Dean's eyes fluttered open as Sam typed noisily, and he laughed deep in his throat, the way he sometimes did when he was drunk and about to pass out. It used to annoy Sam. But tonight it comforted him.

"What?" he asked with a grin.

"Your laptop is on your lap top," Dean twanged with a rude giggle.

"You dumb shit," Sam answered, trying to hide the fact that he was laughing, too.

"So tell me," Dean said drowsily. "What is this stupid poem about?"

"It's about a lot of things. But the verses I read to you are the only ones that are really important."

"You mean there are more verses?" Dean asked with sincere horror.

"Don't worry, I won't bore you with the rest."

"Thank the good Lord."

Sam scrolled back to the top of the page, and read through the two verses silently before commenting further.

"Sacred sight," he said seriously. "Like, visions. Psychic-ness."

"Oh," Dean said as if realizing that it should have been obvious. "Makes sense."

"Passage through unholy deed," Sam continued, "matching blood, equal seed."

"You got me there," Dean shrugged.

"We, um…" Sam began. "We've been doing stuff together, Dean. Sexual stuff."

"So?" Dean asked cautiously.

"According to this, paranormal gifts like visions can be passed from person to person. Through sexual interaction."

Dean tensed against Sam. "Go on."

"Matching blood, equal seed. I'm pretty sure they mean sexual interaction between…well…blood relatives."

"Ew," Dean blurted.

"Hey," Sam replied, hurt.

"Well, I don't mean ew, you."

"Then ew, who?"

"Ew, blood relatives doing it."

"_We're_ blood relatives doing it," Sam argued.

"Yeah, but we don't document it," Dean answered. "That shit's weird."

Sam didn't respond, so Dean attempted to explain himself.

"Look, I don't mean weird like bad, okay? I don't mean that I think _we're_ weird. It's just that pretty much the rest of the world would say there's something wrong with us, so if you're right, and this poem means what you think it means…It seems weird to me that there is a group of people out there somewhere condoning inces…"

He trailed off before finishing the word. It didn't sound right in his mouth. He knew intellectually that that was exactly what he and Sam were doing together. But there were so many connotations with that word. Even the spelling of the word in his mind seemed strange to him. Wrong. And wrong was a concept that could never exist in his relationship with his brother. He moved away from the idea of it.

"Who wrote this?" he asked.

Sam exhaled loudly and scrolled down the page.

"Well, the information is ancient, based on old pictographs found near here in the desert. But the poem was written more recently, sort of an interpretation of the original message."

"Pictographs?" Dean asked. "What the hell?"

"I don't know," Sam said honestly.

"So who ever wrote this was all about the family fun, huh?"

"Not exactly. Don't forget the second verse."

"Oh, how could I?" Dean demanded dramatically. "It was _fascinating._"

Sam kicked Dean's leg under the sheets and then kissed his clean, spiky hair.

"Shut up, and listen.

"'And unto only those who must,

For sake of tribe survival, share,

Shall be allowed one spell of lust

Ere Night Bird raze the donor bare.'"

Dean thought about it for long moments.

"I have to admit it, little brother. It doesn't make a lick of sense to me."

"Only those who must," Sam quoted. "For sake of tribe survival. They're saying that the only way to pass on visions is through sexual interaction within the family. But it's only allowed if the person who currently holds the visions is unable to carry them any longer."

"'Kay," Dean said slowly.

"Ere Night Bird raze the donor bare," Sam finished. "The person giving the visions up…has to die."

Dean chuckled derisively. "Has to die? What does that mean?"

"I don't know. I mean, it could mean that if the person with the sight is already dying, he or she has to give it to a family member so that they can continue to protect the tribe. But it could also mean…No," Sam shook his head. "I'm reaching with this."

"What?" Dean insisted. "What else would it mean?"

"That…" Sam began. "Night Bird is another name for the angel of death. I don't know, maybe death isn't the_ reason_ for passing on the sight. Maybe it's the _punishment_ for it."

Dean didn't respond and Sam didn't press him to. They both took their time processing this line of information, and two very different stories were playing out in their two very different brains.

But at some point, Dean's internal monologue was fully concocted, and he was ready to speak it aloud.

He reached over and closed Sam's laptop, and then he pushed it off of Sam's lap and to the side of the bed, then took his brother's hand in his own and squeezed it.

"So. The unspoken theme here is our sexual interaction."

Sam nodded in agreement.

"You think that you passed your visions to me through bodily fluids or something?"

"Or something," Sam confirmed. "Yeah."

Dean reached across Sam's body and pulled on the lamp chain, casting them into quick and shocking darkness.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked.

"I'm done with this day," Dean growled, pulling Sam flat onto his back and plunging his nose somewhere between Sam's nipple and his armpit.

"We need to talk about this," Sam pleaded.

"We have plenty of time for that," Dean commanded.

"We have 29 days, Dean," Sam said in a frightened monotone.

Dean's breath caught for only a moment, and then he bit down softly on the skin where Sam's upper arm and his chest came together, and Sam breathed in heavily.

"It's a stupid old myth," he said firmly. "It's crap. We have bigger things to deal with, and we're scaring ourselves over nothing."

Sam felt compelled to argue, but the tone of Dean's voice was so solid. He was reminded of how easy it was to trust his big brother when they were little, how Dean's say had meant so much to him back then, how he just _knew_ that anything Dean had to say _must _be right. Because Dean knew everything.

And despite the older, wiser part of him that knew better, he fell back into his old pattern and allowed Dean's final say to be _the_ final say.

Sure, it was entirely possible, and even probable, that he had passed his visions on to Dean through their sexual contact. But the rest of the poem was crap. Just like Dean said. A silly old myth.

And how could he possibly worry about that, or anything, with the feeling of Dean's breath against his underarm, and Dean's big, beautiful, hard dick against his thigh? Even through the material of their boxer briefs, Sam could clearly feel the shape of it, and Dean's soft, subtle thrusts against his leg as he drifted off to sleep.

How could Sam be worried now? They had 29 days left. They had solved many of their other cases within a week. There was plenty of time.

In their world, 29 days was practically an eternity.

* * *

Sam woke up cold. Not an experience he was accustomed to having ever since he and Dean had begun sharing a bed. He reached around under the sheets and whimpered with frustration and a lingering pain from his bruised ribs.

"Dean!" he whispered through the darkness.

No response.

He pulled the blankets more tightly around himself and shivered, wishing he had remembered to turn off the air conditioner before going to sleep.

But then he heard a soft sound coming through the closed door of the bathroom. He perked up his ears to listen more closely, and he felt his heart break in several places when he realized what it was.

It was the muffled, choking sound of Dean sobbing.


	8. 29 Days

A/N: And here it is, my friends! So sorry for the long wait. As you'll soon see, this chapter had me upside down, inside out, and backwards, and I wanted to get it just right. I hope you enjoy it!

Special note: I've had a couple of reviews and PMs asking if this is going to be a death fic. I totally understand your wanting me to warn you ahead of time so you don't have to deal with all of that craziness. The thing is, I honestly don't know where this story is going. From chapter to chapter, I'm following where it leads, and God only knows where it will eventually take us.

What I can say is that it wouldn't be a proper Supernatural story if the threat of death weren't hanging in the air, would it? These boys are constantly in danger even in the best of times. So chances are, things can still turn out okay. But what is already clear to me, and most likely to you, is that if there _is_ a happy ending, there's still gonna be a lot of hardship before we ever get there. And that's really the best prediction I can give you. So buckle your seatbelts, kiddos. ;)

Spoilers: Through the end of season 3 in an Alternate Universe sort of way.

* * *

_Can't stop what's coming, can't stop what is on its way. – Tori Amos_

Twenty-Nine:

But then he heard a soft sound coming through the closed door of the bathroom. He perked up his ears to listen more closely, and he felt his heart break in several places when he realized what it was.

It was the muffled, choking sound of Dean sobbing in the bathroom.

* * *

Twenty-Eight:

Dean sat in his usual spot, the chair closest to the air conditioner. He bit on his hangnail, or as Sam spitefully called it, Dean's new best friend, and stared blankly at the lily-patterned carpet of the motel room.

"You want to talk about it?" Sam ventured from the edge of his bed.

"Talk about what?" Dean responded in a voice that was flat and hard and clearly unwilling to talk about anything.

"Nothing," Sam sighed.

* * *

Twenty-Five:

"They say that the road ain't no place to start a family!" Dean sang furiously into the microphone, beer-tinged spittle spraying in every direction.

"Right down the line it's been you and me!" he continued, pointing across the crowded bar at Sam.

Sam bowed his head uncomfortably as the bar's other patrons turned to focus on him questioningly.

"Loving a music man ain't always what it's supposed to be," Dean sang, his wailing voice saturated in a frantic melancholy. His words were slurred nearly beyond anyone's ability to understand him, but the tears in his eyes and the strain on his face had everyone in the smoky room glued to his performance.

Another line of white letters scrolled up on the blue background of the karaoke screen, and Dean wailed some more.

"Oh, girl, you stand by me," he crooned. "I'm forever yours…"

Everyone in the bar took a deep breath and held it, waiting for the final word, for the satisfying resolution of the melody that they all knew so well.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, terrified of what was about to come.

"FAITHFULLY!" Dean screamed wildly, dropping the microphone to the small wooden platform that passed for a stage, causing the large amplifiers to emit a deafening squeal.

He then fell to his knees and stuck his tongue out as he played the air guitar over his crotch, banging his head up and down like a rock god.

The whole room screeched along with the microphone, guys chugging their beers, girls raising their hands in the air like fanatics and jumping up and down. A few of them kept stealing glances at Sam, fully aware that he was the one Dean was singing to.

Sam tried to push through the crowd toward the stage so that he could grab his brother, take him outside, and God willing, beat the shit out of him for making such fools out of them both. But the bar was so full, he couldn't take even a single step.

* * *

Twenty-Four:

Sam sat in Dean's chair this morning, nursing a cup of scorching hot coffee and listening to the monotonous crackle of Dean's powerful snores.

For the fourth time, he kicked the corner of the mattress, and finally Dean shuddered himself awake.

"What?" Dean cried, sitting up in bed.

Then he immediately yelped in pain, his hangover smashing him back down to the bed, taking his breath away as he pulled the covers over his head.

"Fuck me running," he moaned in agony.

"I know the feeling," Sam sighed.

* * *

Twenty-One:

"Road head!" Sam shouted from his research station at the table.

"Huh?" Dean intoned, his toothbrush hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"I gave you head when we were driving out of Maine!"

"So you did," Dean agreed with a lustful, reminiscent grin. A small white line of foamy toothpaste dribbled down his chin and he quickly wiped it away.

"And then I… Oh, shit," Sam said. "And then we almost got hit by a truck and you swerved!"

"Huh?"

"Dean! When I was going down on you, you closed your eyes and we almost ran into a semi truck, but then you swerved out of the way!"

Dean raised his eyebrows, then went back to the sink so he could spit and rinse. Then he came back, wiping his mouth with a hand towel.

"You want to run that by me one more time?" he asked.

"Do you remember when we got separated at the bar when we first came into town? And the next day, I told you I drove myself home and I could have sworn I was getting head? I was having a dream about the drive out of Maine, from _your_ perspective. That must have been when the visions passed between us."

"Fascinating," Dean said, not even remotely fascinated. But then he grinned slyly. "So about this road head thing…"

"Oh, shit," Sam said again.

"Did you maybe want to try something like that again?" Dean asked in a suggestive tone.

"I had another vision that night," Sam said.

"I've got a vision of how we could spend our afternoon," Dean said. "We got a full tank of gas, you know..."

"I was in hell."

"You were _what?_" Dean demanded, suddenly alert.

"We still have beer, right?" Sam deflected, making a beeline to the kitchenette and digging through the small fridge for a bottle of numbness.

* * *

Nineteen:

Sam sat against the headboard of the bed on the right, perfectly still.

Dean sat against the headboard of the bed on the left, noisily sucking on a toothpick.

Jeopardy played on the TV, but the sound was muted, and both boys were deep in thought.

"It was a vision. It was the last vision you had before passing them to me," Dean said halfheartedly.

"Why would I have a vision of being in hell, Dean?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Dean shrugged. "Maybe it was a vision of _my_ future."

Sam took a moment to look doubtfully at Dean.

"I don't know," Dean repeated. "Tell me again what it was—"

"I was hanging from a hook being chopped into pieces," Sam said in a breathless monotone.

Dean shuddered softly. "Maybe it was just a dream," he shrugged again, doubt creeping into his voice.

Sam looked at Dean a second time, a mixture of hope and fear tightening his features.

* * *

Sixteen:

Another restless night wrapped in a tangled mess of bedding, and this time, Sam had remembered to turn off the air conditioner before going to sleep, resulting in the whole mattress getting soaked in his anxious sweat. He scratched at his balls unhappily, his underwear the only barrier between him and the heat.

"Dean," he whispered to the bed across the way. Dean had begun sleeping in the other bed the last two nights, and Sam tried to crush the twist of agony that lurched in his stomach at not having his brother right next to him.

"Dean," he said again, louder. "Do you care if I turn on the AC?"

No response. Just as Sam was about to give up on Dean's permission, he heard a familiar sound. That awful, ratcheting breath coming from behind the closed door of the bathroom. Dean was in there crying again, clearly trying not to be heard, but failing miserably.

"This has got to stop," Sam sighed, forgetting about the overheated room entirely as he flung the sheets angrily away from him and stormed through the dark room. He stubbed his toe hard on the corner of the dresser, the white-hot pain only serving to magnify his frustration. "Fucking damn it!" he cursed.

He made it to the bathroom and slammed his fist on the door several times. "Dean! Come out here right now!"

"Go to bed, Sam!" Dean yelled back, his former big-brother authority usurped by the watered down voice of a man who had been crying.

"Don't think I won't break down the door, Dean!" Sam warned. "I am done with this!"

"Go to fucking bed!" Dean howled.

Sam backed up as far as the tiny motel room would allow, then hurled himself at the door, smashing into it with his shoulder. He heard the wood creak, but the door stayed in place.

"Sam, don't!"

He backed up again and rammed into the door a second time. This time, the door crashed open, sending several splinters of wood flying. He flipped on the bathroom light and found Dean crouched on the floor in his underwear, shielding his face with his arms against the imploding doorframe and the sudden shock of bright light. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the white tile next to him, the black cap discarded nearby.

"Dean…" Sam began, appalled at the sight before him.

"Fuck off," Dean muttered, grabbing the bottle and attempting to push past his brother.

Sam grabbed at the bottle and tried to pull it away from Dean, initiating a tug-of-war between them. "You think you're just gonna walk away from this, Dean?"

"Sammy, this is not your problem! Just leave me alone!"

He yanked the bottle out of Sam's grasp and gulped from the spout greedily, pounding his way to the entrance of the room.

"You're not leaving, Dean," Sam stated.

"You gonna stop me?"

Sam had truly had enough. He sprinted across the room and tackled his brother, sending the whiskey bottle crashing into the wall.

"Get. The fuck. Off me." Dean gurgled through the chokehold Sam had on him.

"No," Sam said, tightening his grip.

"Sammy…" Dean warned. "If you don't let me go right now…"

"_No_," Sam repeated.

His nose was pressed against Dean's shoulder blade, and the smell of his brother's skin intensified his determination to keep Dean in position.

"I'll never let you go," Sam whispered.

Dean heard the change in Sam's voice. "Come on, Sam."

"No!" Sam said more adamantly. "Tell me why you've been drinking in the bathroom."

"No." It was Dean's turn to refuse, and he answered so solemnly that Sam felt chills go down his back.

"Dean…"

"No, Sam. It's nothing. We're not talking about it."

"Then I'm not getting off of you."

Dean could feel that he was not going to win this fight. He rested his forehead against the carpet and took a breath, relieved when Sam's chokehold loosened only slightly. He could think of worse ways to spend a night than underneath the familiar weight of his little brother.

* * *

Fifteen:

Sam ran a hand over his pockets, confirming that he had everything he needed. Wallet, check. Keys, check.

"I'm getting food," he said cautiously.

"'Kay," Dean replied absently from his seat at the table, staring at the laptop screen.

"You… want anything?" Sam pressed.

Dean shook his head, his eyes still lowered. "I'm good."

"You're not hungry at all," Sam challenged.

"Nope."

"Okay."

Sam took several steps closer to the door, slowly, waiting for Dean to stop him. Dean didn't. Sam put a hand on the doorknob, turning it noisily, though not opening the door. Dean still didn't budge.

"I'm going now," Sam said.

"'Kay," Dean repeated.

Sam shook his head, wanting to throttle Dean's neck. They hadn't spoken about last night at all, and as far as Sam could tell, it was like Dean didn't even remember that it happened.

"Dean?"

Dean breathed a sigh of exasperation and finally made eye contact. "Yeah?"

Sam stared back at him, unable to decide how he should begin, and frankly, a little hurt by the impatience in his brother's voice.

Sam surrendered. "I'll pick something up for you in case you change your mind."

"I just told you I'm not hungry, Sam" Dean dismissed, returning his gaze to the computer.

"That's why I said 'in case,' _Dean_," Sam replied, barely managing to keep his voice at normal volume.

He yanked the door open and stormed out of the room.

Dean flinched, but otherwise remained still.

* * *

Eleven:

Clink.

They struck their beers together and drank deeply, sitting on the curb across the street from their motel, the long-reaching view of the desert tucked safely behind them and a silly stretch of quasi-civilization resting ahead.

"I never realized there was a strip mall right next to our motel," Dean said wonderingly.

"I never realized this town was such a pathetic fucking armpit," Sam countered, eliciting a raucous belly laugh from Dean.

Clink.

They drank deeply again.

"What the fuck are we doing?" Dean asked laughingly.

"We're enjoying the sunset," Sam answered.

"Sunset's behind us, little man."

"Well, not the actual sunset. I mean sunset like the time of day."

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam, taking another swig of his beer.

"I mean," Sam tried again, "we're enjoying a moment in time. We're drinking beers and sitting on our asses and dealing with the fact that we have nothing to do right now. How often do we get to just do nothing?"

Dean thought it over, then nodded. "Well stated."

Clink.

Drink.

"They've got quite a little 'burb here," Dean noted.

His eyes scanned the microscopic strip mall, the tiny chain restaurants, and the handful of bars that he and Sammy hadn't had the pleasure of visiting.

"Wish we'd had a chance to wander around," he added.

Sam looked at him crookedly. "Wander around?" he asked with a smirk. "Who the hell are you right now?"

"You're the one saying we never have a chance to do nothing!" Dean shot defensively. "How much of my life have I spent trying to get somewhere?" he conjectured. "Or kill something. Or get someone into bed."

"Hey…" Sam began warningly.

"I'm just saying," Dean interrupted. "I don't think I've ever actually _wandered_." He shook his head, unable to find the words to express the odd sense of freedom that his imminent fate was suddenly affording him.

So instead of searching for more words, he repeated Sam's earlier sentiment. "How often do we get to just do nothing?"

Sam looked at Dean, studying his hair and his cheekbones and his tired eyes. It occurred to him that he should feel afraid or sad. That some sort of animal protectiveness should be bubbling up within him, forcing him into action or heroism or something of the sort.

But, "This feels good," was what ended up coming out of his mouth.

Dean chuckled at the absurdity of such an easy comment under the circumstances, and at the fact that he felt the same way. The total aimlessness of this moment really did feel good.

He took another slow swallow of his drink as soft tears silently filled his eyes, surprising him, blurring his view of the miniature city.

"I miss Dad," he said quietly, accidentally.

Sam nodded, putting his arm around Dean's slumped shoulders. "Yeah."

* * *

Eight:

"I'm having visions of hell," Dean stated.

Sam, who up until that point had been sitting on the bed, mindlessly channel surfing, froze in position. The room was silent other than the soft sounds of a chirpy woman on the shopping network peddling tacky flameless candles. Dean was sitting in his thinking chair as per usual, and Sam peeked at him warily, half hoping he had imagined what he just heard. Dean sat there, staring into space and biting at his hangnails, indeed, like he hadn't even spoken.

"Did you say something?" Sam asked breathily.

"You know what I said, Sam," Dean said matter-of-factly, now looking Sam right in the eye. The seriousness of his gaze caused Sam to look away.

"No," Sam shook his head. "It's too soon. People don't start having demonic delusions until within 24 hours of—"

"But I have _visions_ now, remember?"

"—and the visions don't cover things outside of this dimension—"

"Maybe the energy vortex juiced me up or something."

"Dean, it's not possible. You're just having nightmares—"

"You want to know why I'm drinking in the bathroom, Sammy?" Dean said in a tone specifically designed to shut Sam up. "I've been having visions of hell. Of _you_. In hell."

Sam shut off the TV and looked at the floor, waiting for Dean to go on.

"Of you being…" Dean rubbed roughly at his eyes. "Cut up. Hanging from a hook and being cut up."

Sam's stomach dropped. It was the same thing he remembered seeing the night that Dean met the medicine woman at the bar. It was Sam's last official vision, before the transference between him and Dean had been completed. To the best of his knowledge, anyway. But still…

"Dean," he said slowly. "I've never had a vision outside of this time-space reality. I only ever had visions of things in our world."

"Have you ever been damned to hell before?"

"No."

"I might be a special case."

Sam took another moment to digest it all.

"So what do we do, Dean?" he asked.

"What _can _we do, Sammy?" Dean rebounded.

The room was silent.

* * *

Five:

Bed springs squeaking mournfully as insidious specks of cold moonlight invaded the otherwise dark motel room through the frayed flower-print curtains.

"Dean…" Sam whispered painfully.

"Hang on," Dean grunted.

"Dean, you're hurting me."

"Just hang on, I can do it right."

"Dean, please."

He squeezed another generous glob of lube into the palm of his hand and smeared it over his half hard dick, planting the tip once more at the entrance of Sam's tightly puckered opening. Sam lay on his back with his legs pulled up, squeezing his eyes shut against the pressure.

The ever-present bottle of Jack Daniels sat sadly on the bedside table, nearly empty.

"Dean," Sam whispered in the darkness.

Dean tried to pretend he didn't hear the sob in Sam's throat.

"I owe you this," Dean whispered back, trying to jerk his penis back into stiffness. "Just… let me do this for you."

"We don't have to…"

"Sammy," Dean pleaded, becoming more flaccid with every passing moment. "I don't want to leave you without…"

"You've already given me everything you…" Sam trailed off in another quiet sob. "I'm happy just to be with you."

"I need…" Dean begged. The darkness of the room made his head spin. "_Please_ let me make love to you…"

Sam began to weep openly, then. "Just… please, don't."

"Sammy…"

Dean slammed his hand down on the mattress angrily, and Sam gripped the back of his neck, pulling him down.

"Sam, stop it!"

"Dean."

"I have to give you_ something_! I have to…"

"Big brother, just…"

"Sam," Dean choked, collapsing onto his little brother's chest. "I'm gonna die."

Sam stroked his hair, tears falling over his naked skin as Dean slapped at the pillows and then at Sam and then at the pillows. Sam felt the irrational urge to bite something.

"I'm gonna _die_, Sam," Dean repeated desperately, breathlessly.

He pushed his face into Sam's neck, as if he couldn't possibly get close enough to receive the comfort he so painfully desired.

"I know," Sam whispered, his cheeks pulling jerkily into a trembling frown like an embarrassed child trying to hold back his tears. "I know, Dean."

After long moments of Dean's trembling sobs, he finally started to calm down. Sam reached out for the whiskey bottle and pushed Dean gently onto his back.

"Open," Sam said somberly.

Dean weakly opened his mouth and allowed his little brother to pour the rest of the dark liquid down his throat.

* * *

Four:

The sun was still behind the mountains, but the first indications of morning light were creeping into the room, illuminating everything in an otherworldly shade of blue.

Sam looked peaceful in his sleep, sleep being about the only time Sam _ever_ looked peaceful these days. His naked shoulders and his face were the only parts of him that weren't tucked snugly under the comforter, and Dean stood over him, fully clothed, positively aching with the need to touch that skin, to kiss those lips.

But he didn't. He couldn't. He was afraid to wake him, knowing that if Sam knew his plan, he would fight, and Dean would never be able to resist those sad, pleading eyes.

So instead, he brought to mind the last time he and Sam had kissed each other, before they left for the desert. Back when there had been even a sliver of hope. Jesus, had it been a whole month? He regretted not showing his brother more affection when he'd had the chance. But at least their last kiss had been a tender one.

"I'll never stop lovin' you, kid," Dean whispered.

Sam whimpered softly in his sleep.

* * *

"Dean?"

Reaches across the mattress. Empty.

Listens for the sound of Dean in the bathroom. Nothing.

"Dean?" he calls more loudly.

Pulls himself reluctantly out of bed, shivering as the cold morning air kisses his bare chest.

Peeks into the bathroom. Empty.

"Dean!" he calls one more time, his voice stark and echoless in the little room.

Pokes his head outside the front door. The car is still there. Otherwise, nothing.

His heart rate speeds up, and his fists begin to clench and unclench as panic settles in.

"Dean?" he asks quietly, knowing this time that he won't receive a response.

Dean is gone.

* * *

Three:

"Where in the Christ have you little bastards been?" Bobby screamed over the phone.

"Listen, Bobby…" Sam began.

"Don't you Listen Bobby me, you damn fool! Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to reach you two?"

"Dean's gone," Sam blurted.

"Dean's…" Bobby repeated. "He's…What do you mean, gone? You mean…"

"No, he's not dead. At least I think we still have a few days…" Sam scrunched his eyes shut. "I mean, I don't know, Bobby. He's just gone. He was here yesterday and now he's not here today. He's not answering his phone."

"Frustrating, right?" Bobby interjected bitterly.

"And I… Bobby, please. I don't know what to do. He's out there alone somewhere, and if I… if I don't see him before…

Sam's voice began trembling, and he had to stop speaking to keep from sobbing.

"Okay, okay, just take a breath, son," Bobby said with a sort of begrudging comfort in his voice. "Just breathe, okay?"

Sam nodded his head, crying quietly.

"When's the last time you saw him?" Bobby asked.

"Last night," Sam croaked.

"And how did he seem? What was he doing?"

"He was… Uh, we were…" Sam paused for a long time as he flashed back to the horror of the previous night, the weight of Dean's body crushing and painful on top of him, the scrambled look in Dean's eyes, the violent, grasping hands all over Sam's body as Dean all but forced himself onto his little brother. He had never been so rough, so careless with his touch, and Sam's insides clenched at the thought of it.

"Sam?" Bobby tried again.

"We were, um…" Another long pause. "Working some things out."

Bobby took a long pause of his own and then, "Well, what in blue blazes does _that_ mean?"

"Bobby, look, it's complicated, okay? A lot's happened since we last spoke, and Dean and I..." He knew he couldn't tell Bobby the truth about their relationship, and he was too frazzled at the moment to come up with a good excuse, so he shook his head resignedly and said, "I just need to find him, Bobby. I can't let him be alone right now."

That quiver returned to Sam's voice, and once again, Bobby was eerily silent on the other end of the line.

"Bobby?"

"Sam, I am liking the sound of this less and less with every word that falls out of your mouth. I want to know what you're not telling me, and I want to know right now."

"No, we don't have _time_ for that!"

"I can't help you unless I know the whole story, now spill it!"

Sam took a deep breath.

* * *

Two:

"God…"

Sam stared up at the stained glass window, at the altar covered in flickering candles, and at the large crucifix at the head of the church, the sculpted Jesus hanging awkwardly, gazing sadly down at the floor.

"God…" Sam began again. He was the only one in the chapel, seated in the first row of pews. "I need… Can you please…"

In his exhausted delirium, he could almost see the wooden eyes of Jesus turning to look right at him, right through him, seeing every last deed he'd ever committed. Every demon he had slain, every person he had killed in the process, every lie he'd ever told, every unkind word he'd ever spoken.

Every last touch he had ever shared with his older brother.

His words caught in his throat.

"Never mind," he croaked fearfully, and darted out of the church.

* * *

One:

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Sam whispered hatefully.

"Get in fucking line," Dean said.

He lay on his side on a green park bench, a dirty red sweater crumpled up beneath his head serving as a pillow. The bench was the only green in sight. Pebbles and rocks served for lawns in Arizona, and larger rocks were arranged in several areas, where in a normal park there would be trees. The only thing that didn't feel strange was the playground several yards away.

Sam pushed Dean's legs unceremoniously off the bench and sat down next to him.

He stared at the darkening, overcast sky.

The grayness of the day, the silence of the park, ominous and still, and Sam felt a little sad that such portents of impending doom had little effect on him anymore. That he was so jaded by his horror movie of a life. That scary things weren't scary anymore, but normal. Expected.

It made him feel like a freak. Like he was less than human.

The empty swing set before them rattled and creaked hauntingly in the breeze, as if agreeing with his thoughts.

"Where did you go?" he asked quietly.

"Here," Dean responded.

"Why didn't you tell me where you'd be?" Sam demanded.

"I didn't want you to see it happen," Dean answered. "To see me when I…"

His voice trailed off into nothingness. The wind around them picked up slightly.

"Fucking son of a bitch," Sam answered. "Do have any clue how worried—"

"You'd be worried, anyway," Dean said despondently. "You're not happy unless you're worried. Fuck you."

Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled malevolently, and both brothers shuddered.

"You're trying to hurt my feelings so I'll leave you alone," Sam observed.

"Is it working?"

Rather than answering, Sam reached out for Dean's hand and grabbed it roughly, jerking it into his lap and squeezing it between both of his own.

"I hate you," Sam said quietly.

"Sam…"

"I _hate_ you for taking off. I hate you for thinking that would be easier on me."

"So watching me get ripped to shreds by a pack of hell hounds is going to be easy? I was trying to protect you."

"As usual," Sam grunted. "And as usual, you just made things worse."

"Sammy, I don't want you here. This isn't gonna be a pretty sight."

"So what do you suggest I do?" Sam snarled, glaring at Dean. "Go get an ice cream cone and think happy thoughts?"

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it, pursing his lips together with a nod. "I guess not."

They both looked up at the sky. The clouds above looked as if they were threatening to spill, but so far, still dry. There was some remaining daylight, but it was impossible to tell exactly what time it was.

"We got several hours before this thing is set to happen," Dean whispered. "Midnight, you know?"

"You got other plans today?" Sam asked.

"Nope."

"Me neither," Sam agreed. He lifted Dean's hand to his mouth and kissed it softly, slowly, holding it against his face.

Dean closed his eyes at the warmth, taking a deep and labored breath in through his nose.

"You're still an asshole," Sam whispered.

Dean looked at Sam, really _looked_ at him, taking in his features in a way that he never had before. "And you're the love of my life," he responded simply.

Sam looked back at his brother, unable to speak. There were no more words, really.

He slid closer and rested his head against Dean's shoulder as Dean put a strong arm around him. Nothing to do now but wait, it seemed.

And so they waited.

* * *

A/N: So… I realize this ending is about the cruelest thing I've ever done. Rest assured, the next chapter is coming soon!


	9. No Body

A/N: So sorry to keep you all hanging with that last installment. For what it's worth, this chapter is extra long so I hope it's worth the wait. In other good news, this little guy is a year old as of the end of last month. (This Little Guy being my nickname for this story.) Has it been that long? I'm so grateful for everyone who is still following after all this time. Enjoy!

Spoilers: Mystery Spot, end of Season 3, and beginning of Season 4, in the very vaguest way. But as I keep saying, I'm messing canon all up with this story, and I'm not exactly keeping track, so enter at your own peril.

* * *

Dean couldn't breathe.

All was darkness, and he couldn't breathe, and somehow, that was okay. All of creation consisted of a thick pressure covering his body from every direction, and he couldn't take a single gulp of air.

And he couldn't shake the feeling that everything was totally, unreasonably, and stupidly okay.

"I want to fuck you," said a soft, raspy voice into his ear.

He started, and then lifted his head. Bright light filled his vision as he realized the crumpled up pillow beneath his face had been the reason for his near suffocation. He took several swallows of blessed cool air, and then he recognized the pressure on his back.

"Baby boy," he whispered, his dick growing hard beneath him.

Sam laughed breathily into Dean's ear, kissing his shoulder blade and rubbing his own impressive erection up and down the inside of Dean's crack. Dean moaned quietly as his sensitive hole was gently stimulated.

"I'm supposed to fuck _you_," Dean argued feebly, taking considerably more pleasure from Sam's titillations than he would ever willingly admit.

"Can't I be the big brother for once?" Sam inquired temptingly. He stuck the tip of his tongue inside Dean's ear and reached a hand around to squeeze his nipple. Dean arched back, squeezing his eyes shut as his mouth involuntarily shot open in bliss.

"Just this once?" Sam urged, flexing his arm to slowly turn Dean onto his back.

Dean looked up at the ceiling and realized where they were.

Back in their precious little motel room in Maine. The first place that had felt even remotely like home to him in a long, long time.

And as was so often the case in this room, Dean had no idea what time of day it was. But sunlight wafted lovingly in through the curtains, bathing everything in a drowsy kind of warmth, including Sam's peaceful, healthy face. Those eyes staring down at him with so much love, those lips smirking sexily, eagerly, small spasms betraying their desire.

"You're an angel," Dean whispered, struck to reverence by the perfection of it all.

He put both hands on either side of Sam's face worshipfully, allowing his legs to be guided upwards where they hooked around the small of Sam's back.

"Let me make love to you, Dean," Sam said, the musicality of his deep voice ringing like a heretofore undiscovered hymn, a song altogether too holy to have been suffered unto the mouths of lowly men.

"Hhhhhhhh," Dean breathed, nodding slowly. He couldn't speak. He was all desire.

A warm pressure at his opening, and then a smooth, fluid union like liquid silver that made him feel he was completely complete and wholly whole for the first time in his entire life.

"Sammy…" he cried, tears streaming sideways off of his smiling face. "This must be Heav—"

* * *

He jerked awake to find himself in cold darkness.

"Sam!" he whispered frantically. "Fuck! Sam! Am I in… _Sammy!_"

It was too dark. It was way too dark, and so cold.

"Where am I?" he mouthed, afraid that if he audibly asked the question, he might be given the answer.

"Dean?" Sam said groggily. "I'm right here. I think I fell asleep…"

"Sammy!" Dean nearly yelled.

And then Sam snapped into sharp awareness.

"Oh, fuck!" he started. "I fell asleep! What time is it? Dean?"

He reached out for Dean in the darkness, finding his face, checking to make sure that each and every feature was still intact.

"I don't know," Dean responded. "Hang on."

He reached into his jacket for his cell phone and hit a button to turn on the backlight. He experienced exactly one second of relief followed by an instant plunge back into total panic.

"11:58," he said.

"Fuck!" Sam shouted. "Why did you let me fall asleep?"

"I didn't let… Oh, goddamn it."

Dean stood up from the bench and squinted upwards. Not pitch black after all. The stars were bright out here away from the city, and a new moon hung tauntingly in the corner of the sky. He stumbled into the gravel surrounding the playground, headed nowhere in particular.

"This is _not_…" he raved. "I was done! I was fucking done!"

"What are you talking about?" Sam begged, chasing after him.

"It was over, Sam! It was over and hell was called off, and I was… We were in Heaven, little brother," Dean choked, pulling on Sam's jacket. "We were _together_."

Sam shook his head, tears glinting in the starlight. "You had a dream."

"No. Sammy, it was so real."

"It was a dream, Dean. We shouldn't have fallen—"

_BEEP BEEP!_

"_Fuck!_" they cried in unison.

"What is that?" Dean screeched.

"It's my phone," Sam answered, grabbing his cell from his pants pocket, clicking off the buzzer.

"You set a fucking alarm for my induction into hell?" Dean cried.

"No! I…" Sam looked at his phone with terror. "I set it for five minutes before… What does your phone say?"

Dean looked at his phone, nearly wetting himself. "12:02."

"FUCK," Sam breathed. "So hell isn't synchronized with our clocks."

"So we don't know when it's happening."

"So we get to just…"

"Just wait and…"

"Wait."

They both stopped breathing momentarily, and the silence of the night was absolute. Crushing.

"Will you marry me?" Sam asked quickly.

"What?"

"Nothing." He scratched at his face. "No, not nothing. Will you marry me, please?"

"We're kind of running out of time here, Sam," Dean spewed desperately.

"I mean, not that we can really get mar… I just mean… I set that alarm for five minutes before so that I would remember to tell you everything that I want you to know, and… And now it's coming out all wrong, and… Dean…"

There was just enough light to see that lost and overwhelmed look that Sam used to get in his eyes when he was too young to understand all of the evil going on around them. Dean gripped Sam's face violently and kissed him so hard that they both tasted blood.

"Dean…" Sam panted.

"Yes, I'll fucking marry you," Dean said, pulling Sam roughly into his arms. "Yes, okay?"

"I love you, Dean."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"I love you."

They collapsed onto the ground, tiny rocks digging into their knees, their hearts pounding in their ears, the night swallowing them and their useless sobs whole.

Dean felt like he was going to pass out. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't see, and he couldn't even smell Sam through the stink of his own snotty tears.

"I would do it again, Sammy," he gasped. "The crossroads. I would make the same decision. I would do anything to keep you safe."

"I'm not safe," Sam argued.

"I would do it all again," Dean insisted. "I couldn't let you go."

"I'm gonna die without you, Dean."

"You better fucking not."

"I'm coming with you."

"SAM!"

"I will. I'm gonna come with you."

Dean yanked himself out of Sam's embrace and punched him in the mouth. Sam fell face first into the rocks.

"Do not!" Dean commanded.

"I know a way," Sam insisted through a mouthful of blood, attempting to get back up. "At least if we're together, we can figure something out."

"Sammy, it doesn't work that way!"

"Who fucking says?" Sam finally got back up onto his knees so he could face his brother. "I'm coming with you!"

He swiped a handful of blood from his mouth and began drawing an ancient symbol into the rocks.

"Don't, Sam!" Dean punched him again, harder, sending him flying several feet away.

Sam took a moment to recover his senses, and then, from his position on his stomach, he took more of his blood to begin the symbol again. "I know a way to come with you," he gurgled. "I didn't tell you 'cause I knew you'd try to stop me."

And suddenly Dean was four years old again, and his house was on fire, and his father was placing baby Sam in his arms and telling him to take Sam outside, to not look back. And all he knew was fear, and all he knew was his father's love, and all he knew was to keep Sam safe, no matter what it took.

And he found a heavy rock in the gravel, and he dragged himself over to Sam, cutting up his hands and knees in the process.

"We're going to be together," Sam said breathlessly, his symbol nearly complete.

"I'll do anything to keep you safe," Dean said wretchedly, then added, "I'm so sorry."

He brought the rock down hard upon Sam's skull.

* * *

And he waited.

And he waited.

And he made sure that Sam was still breathing.

And then he waited some more.

And after who knows how long, he pulled his phone out of his pocket with a shaking hand and shuddered to see that it was 12:26.

He hurled the phone across the playground and pulled at his hair.

And Sam was still. Still breathing. Still still.

And Dean sat on his ass and rocked back and forth, for how long, he couldn't be sure.

He crawled over to the playground and picked up his phone again.

12:49.

"What _is_ this?" he pleaded with his phone.

"_WHAT IS THIS?_" he screamed at the sky.

And then he waited some more.

The silence became louder, and still he waited.

The stars grew brighter and the details of his surroundings became sharper, and he kept waiting.

The dark circle of the new moon inched across the sky, and the waiting continued.

Sam began to snore.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Dean moaned. "Take me or don't take me, but what the FUCK IS GOING ON?"

His phone lay on the ground next to him, and he knocked the keypad with his knuckles to activate the light.

1:01.

He shook his head unbelievingly.

"I'm in hell," he said, nodding. "I'm in hell. This is hell."

He looked around at the unchanging landscape, at his bloody palms, at his motionless brother.

"This must be hell," he said certainly. "Clever. Clever devil. I'm in hell, and the devil makes me think I'm not in hell. Clever fucking duck."

He scratched his forehead shakily.

"Dad," he whispered. "Dad's in hell. Dad is…"

He looked around himself again, sure that he was feeling the stares of thousands of demonic eyeballs on every inch of him. And if John Winchester had been in hell all this time, was _he_ a demon now, too?

"Dad?" Dean asked quietly, his face hot with fear.

2:09.

Still waiting.

2:32.

Lying on his back, silently offering himself up to whatever was out there waiting to take him. _Anything _would be better than this. This not knowing. This _limbo._

3:04.

Dean dreamed of not enough light. A room with endless light switches, all of which he flipped to the on position, and still not enough light. There needed to be more fucking _light._

"Dean?"

Dean woke up and flipped onto his haunches like a wolf ready to pounce, and stared threateningly at the dark shape of his brother's body.

"Dean… did you hit me?"

And with that, Sam was unconscious again.

3:49.

"Ah, God," Sam groaned, a hundred tiny prickles piercing the skin of his face as he came to, still lying on the pebbly ground. His head ached as if an axe were sticking out of the back of it. He reached back and felt his hair matted down with dried blood.

"Dean?" he whispered into the darkness.

No answer.

"No…" he breathed.

He felt around himself blindly, searching for his brother. His eyes adjusted as well as they could, which was not at all well, and there was no sign of Dean anywhere. Only traces of blood on the ground where their fight had occurred.

"Bobby," Sam slurred. "Call…"

He found his cell phone in his pocket and stared at the screen for a long time, waiting for his crossed eyes to come back into focus. Then he found Bobby's number and pushed the send button.

No signal.

"Jesus, _please_," he whispered, trying to get up onto his knees, and weakly crumbling back down to his ass. He dialed again.

No signal.

"No body," he said as his eyes adjusted more to the darkness. He still couldn't see much, but he could see that Dean, or Dean's _body_, wasn't anywhere in sight.

"Did I drive?" he asked himself groggily, and then began to stumble in the direction of where he most likely would have parked the car, had he in fact driven it here.

"Dean!" he shouted.

Dean, hiding in darkness behind the playground, saw his brother's every move, heard his every word, but didn't respond. He didn't dare to.

Sam's voice rang out like a wolf cry into the night. _"DEEEEEAAAAAN!"_

* * *

Silence.

Not even the ticking of a clock.

Sam sat at the table of a room that once held two people and now held only one. He sat perfectly still.

Freshly showered, hair cleanly parted and slicked into place, a newly ironed T-shirt and pair of jeans clinging tightly to his body, he picked up his fork and knife and began methodically cutting into the meat of his TV dinner. He forced his mind to go blank as he focused on the shape of his food, on the sounds of the silverware, on the involved process of tasting, chewing, and swallowing.

He had scoured the area around the playground for what felt like hours, first whispering Dean's name, then yelling, then pleading tearfully for his brother to show himself. Once the brain fog of being knocked unconscious began to lift, he was finally able to find the car, and he drove around the park, shining his high beams on everything in sight. Dean was nowhere.

And now two days had passed, and Dean was _still_ nowhere. Not calling, not answering his phone, no one around who had seen him. Not even any news of a body turning up in the local papers.

_A body,_ Sam's mind reeled as his stomach clenched. He quieted himself again and attempted to put all of his focus back on his dinner.

He occasionally looked up at the wall in front of him where lay his handiwork of the last days. A detailed collection of roadmaps, newspaper clippings, printed internet articles, and case files he had illegally obtained by hacking into several regional police databases. Dark lines and arrows were drawn in permanent marker over all of it, reminding him which items were possibly linked together and giving him a sequential order to follow as he worked it all out.

But now he wasn't thinking about working it out. Now he was meditating.

He chewed his food with total inner stillness, his mind as quiet as the inside of a black hole, as he observed his collage thoughtlessly. He was not new at this.

He had spent six months in an alternate reality perfecting this mental stillness, and this was how he had eventually found the Trickster. The stillness allowed his intuition and his deepest instincts to come through, and his silent, singular, monk-like existence had eventually opened him up to the truth and reunited him with Dean.

And he'd have to return to that stillness, to that oneness with his own greater wisdom in order to find Dean once more because he knew in his heart that the same thing was happening all over again. The Trickster had taken Dean, or Sam, or both of them, and separated them, and if Sam could be still enough, he would find his way out of this living nightmare. It worked before and it would work now.

_Unless Dean is really dead and you're lying to yourself._

He froze with his fork halfway to his mouth and closed his eyes as the unbidden thought broke through his steel wall of concentration, clawing at the periphery of his consciousness. His whole body tensed as he sealed his mind shut against the possibility that he was wrong. Because if he was wrong, Dean was gone. And that was not a possibility he was willing to consider.

* * *

As the sun began its colorless descent, Sam dipped the large sponge into his soapy bucket and squeezed the excess water out of it with one hand. Then he returned to his rhythmic scrubbing of the Impala, painstakingly cleansing every inch of its black surface.

He did his best to remain in his meditative state, knowing that not only was that his best chance of coming up with a real solution to his problem, but also that it was his _only _chance of not completely losing his mind. The thoughts that wanted to be thought were much too dangerous to entertain.

His eyes followed the slow circles he made with the sponge against the car, the car that belonged to his big brother, the car that had been the closest thing to home for both of them for so long. He tried to focus on the blackness of the exterior, attempting to mirror that black emptiness in his own mind, but the car was so ripe with memories and associations that he could feel himself teetering on the brink of actual emotion. And he couldn't have that.

So he gave up on washing the car for now. It was a bad idea from the start, and he knew that. Deep down, he knew the only reason he started was so that he could feel closer to Dean. Or maybe so that he could give Dean something nice to come back to. When Dean came back.

If_ Dean comes back._

_When_ Dean came back.

_Dean's not coming back._

He flung the sponge into the bucket with a splash, and stood abruptly, shaking his head against his thoughts like a duck shaking water off of its back, but with far lesser success.

And as he stood there in the fading daylight, he caught a surprising glimpse of his tightened features in the reflection on the Impala's window. He noticed several things at once, one being his split lip from when Dean punched him the night of his disappearance. Sam had used his own blood from the injury as his last ditch effort to join Dean in hell in the absence of a way to save him, but Dean had knocked him unconscious before he could finish. Sam would have tried again in a heartbeat this very moment if he could, but the ritual only worked while the other party was actually in the process of dying. But now Dean was gone. Dead or alive, he was very much gone, and the symbol was of no use.

The next thing Sam noticed was the hardness of his face. He looked older, but more than that, he looked empty. Like everything he used to be had been sucked out of him. The last time he had looked like this to himself was when he had been in the Trickster's alternate reality. It frightened him to see that cold face in the reflection again, and at the same time, he was comforted by it. This was the face of a man who had won once before, and he tensed his jaw, determined that he would win again.

But he noticed something else in his reflection, too, and this particular item somewhat offset his obstinate confidence. He had seen this thing in the mirror several times over the last few days but had never lingered long enough to decipher it. Only now in his moment of unanticipated emotion did he find himself compelled to look more closely. And malicious prickles climbed up his spine when he realized what it was.

He looked real. He looked real to himself.

The last time Trickster had Sam caught in his own personal hell, the one thing that he had clung to, the one thing that he hadn't even told Dean about, was that every time he looked into a mirror, he hadn't seemed quite real. His face, his hair, his body, his expressions; everything _appeared_ to be normal, but there was still something off. It was as if Sam was in a dream constructed by the Trickster, which meant that Sam, too, was a figure of the Trickster's own making, and while every last physical detail had been picture perfect, there was something deeper that wasn't quite right. The Trickster had not been able to adequately replicate Sam's innermost essence, and Sam had known it. He knew it every time he looked at his reflection. The eyes staring back at him were most definitely his eyes, but what was behind those eyes was not the same.

But now.

He stared more deeply into the car window, opening his eyes wide enough that the westerly sun could shine into them. Hardness, he saw. Emptiness, too. And he most assuredly looked older and more worn than he had only days before. But it was still him. Whether he liked it or not, it was 100% Sam Winchester staring back.

Sam's fist clenched at his side as he felt the urge to punch a hole through the window.

He was interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone in his pocket, and he nearly cried out in fright. He growled unintelligibly and grabbed the phone, staring daggers into Bobby's number on the screen.

Bobby again. Bobby like a constant, nagging itch that Sam knew scratching would only exacerbate. Bobby trying to get in touch with him now just like Bobby trying to get in touch with him then, back when nothing was really real.

Sam ached to answer the phone. His loneliness swelled up within him until he thought he would drown in it, and he positively craved a familiar voice at his ear. But he could not answer. He would not engage. Because if Bobby was real, then all of this was real.

_And this is not real,_ he affirmed to himself, feeling a little relief as his phone ceased its buzzing. _Dean is alive and I'm going to find him and none of this is fucking real._

* * *

Another TV dinner in silence.

Sam carefully cut the meat and looked again at his wall collage. There was a newspaper stand around the corner from the motel with several papers from the surrounding areas, and he had been able to add more clippings to his collection. Suspicious deaths in New Mexico, occult activities in Nevada, even a whisper of child disappearances in southern Utah. It wasn't much to go on, but it was something.

_It's nothing and you know it._

He bit down hard on the salty beef, and scorching, watery gravy squirted against the insides of his cheeks.

_Dean is dead and Trickster has nothing to do with it._

"Stop," he whispered.

_You're losing your mind, Sam._

"Stop," he said aloud.

His phone vibrated angrily on the table, eliciting from him a startled, fully-body tremor.

"Goddamn it!" he shrieked, pulling back from the phone and dropping his fork to the table with a metallic clatter.

Then, feeling immediately foolish and angry, he picked up the phone and slammed it back down onto the tabletop as hard as he could. The vibrating stopped and the phone's screen went dark.

"God," he whispered, feeling more foolish still.

He picked the phone up again and looked it over for damage, removing the back to make sure the battery was still intact. He put it back together and hit the power button, breathing a sigh of relief as it powered up normally. Then as expected, there was another short buzz indicating the next in a long line of messages from dear old Bobby. Sam had long given up on his distant hope that one of these calls might be from Dean.

_If Dean were alive, he'd call you._

"Not if the Trickster is separating us again," Sam argued softly.

_Dean is dead and burning._

"Then where's his body?" Sam asked.

_A missing body doesn't mean he's not dead, Sam. His deadline has come and gone._

"The Trickster can manipulate time and space," Sam whispered, the words sounding ridiculous even to himself.

_But why would he?_

"To make me suffer."

_And what would cause you the worst suffering of all?_

A grisly image of Dean suspended in midair, his body pierced with hooks and hanging from chains, blood shining on his teeth as he arched back in a defenseless scream of unending pain. Sam gasped and held his breath.

_The Trickster has nothing to do with this, Sammy. Winchester suffering has always been self-inflicted._

* * *

Sam sat at the foot of the bed, staring at his knees. He was exhausted, and his pillow called to him, begging him to lie down, but he couldn't. He was losing the battle with the cruel voices in his head, and he knew that if he slept, he would be subject to all manner of terrifying dreams. But he was also losing the fight with sleep, feeling his eyelids drooping heavily every few seconds. In his nearly catatonic state, he could feel each thought in his mind as though it were a wobbly drop of mercury, one tiny tilt of his head to the left or the right potentially leaking the stuff from his ears, and he held vehemently still, attempting to keep his wits together.

His phone lay malignantly on his thigh, as if goading him to listen to Bobby's latest message. His ears rang with the pervasive silence of the room.

"_Or maybe a NASCAR racer," _drifted Dean's chuckling voice from somewhere deep in Sam's mind.

He was transported back to the big, comfortable bed in Maine, the warmth of his brother's body next to him, Dean's friendly, hairy ankle tickling his toes.

Dean's wonderful, deep voice soothing every cell in Sam's body.

"I thought you said NASCAR is for pussies," Sam mouthed the words along with his memory.

"That's because _I'm_ not there." More laughter.

And as soon as the memory had come, it was gone again, leaving Sam shivering and drained and alone. He squeezed his eyes shut as his hand involuntarily reached for the phone in his lap. Before he knew what was happening, he had dialed his voicemail.

Several beeps later, he heard the stern yet comforting familiarity of Bobby's recorded voice.

"Sam, I've had enough. I need to make sure you've taken care of... things."

_The fuck does that mean? _Sam thought.

"And Sam… We need to talk about that… other thing."

Another quick breath as if he was about to go on, and then the line disconnected.

So Bobby hadn't climbed aboard the Winchester love train. No big surprise there. Sam knew it had been a bad idea to tell Bobby about him and Dean as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He had just been so scared and desperate, he couldn't help himself.

_Maybe that's why you can't face answering his calls, _suggested the voice in his head.

"I'm not answering because it's not really Bobby," Sam replied stiffly.

_So why did you listen to his message?_

Sam couldn't respond. So instead he grabbed his keys and bolted from the room.

* * *

Upon his return from the liquor store, Sam had neither the will nor the strength to do anything but drink. And so he found himself sitting on the carpet with his back against the door, working his way through his first 12-pack of beer in total darkness. He hurled his empty beer can blindly and heard it bounce against the side of the TV on the floor.

The digital clock on the bedside table ticked from 12:11 to 12:12 AM, and Sam ripped open another can, letting the room-temperature liquid wash down his throat. With a discount so low, he could hardly complain that the beer wasn't refrigerated.

He could feel his limbs twitching involuntarily, gentle bodily complaints about continuing to poison himself in this way, but he didn't stop swallowing until the can was empty. He chucked the can at the TV and reached for another.

His cell phone vibrated between his legs. It was Bobby again. That familiar number played across the screen, and through his teary, bloodshot eyes, it was like beholding a cool, blue spring after days of thirst in a merciless desert.

_You need someone to comfort you, little brother,_ the sad imitation of Dean's voice played in Sam's head. _You shouldn't be alone now._

Sam threw another can at the TV, this one spraying its contents all over the room.

"Deserters don't get a vote," Sam slurred.

He wiggled his feet, attempting to regain the feeling in his toes. His phone's buzzing seemed to continue longer than normal, or maybe he was hallucinating from too much alcohol all at once, but he suddenly realized what it would be like once it stopped again. Silence. Total silence and complete darkness, and a drunken haze that would easily lend itself to irrational fear and inadvisably heightened emotion.

He couldn't take that. Maybe he was too drunk to be making decisions, but goddamn it, Sam couldn't be alone for one more second. He clicked the answer button and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hi," he said cautiously.

"Sam," Bobby's voice crackled through the phone. He sounded too tired to be angry, but Sam knew that he had to be furious. A long silence passed between them.

"I'm sorry I haven't answered your calls, Bobby. I—"

"Just stop," Bobby said. His voice was drenched in a weary calm, the voice of a man who has given up trying to understand. "I don't know what you've been up to out there, Sam, and frankly I'm done caring."

Sam winced at the coldness. He had expected Bobby to rip him a new asshole or at the very least call him by a slew of disparaging names. Somehow the saddened acquiescence in Bobby's voice cut Sam much deeper than the tirade he had been expecting.

"Bobby—"

"Sam. Stop." Bobby paused for several seconds as if to demonstrate. "You obviously don't care that you and your brother are the closest things to family that I have, and you obviously don't care what I've been going through wondering if you're okay, so I'm not going to waste anymore time talking about that."

Bobby paused again as if quietly daring Sam to argue or defend himself. This time Sam had the good sense to stay silent.

"So I'm calling as a hunter now," he continued. "There are procedures, Sam, that need to be carried out when a fellow hunter dies—"

"But Bobby—"

"Dean's body needs to be salted and burned," Bobby blurted, his voice cracking with ferocious bluntness. "And if your poor choices lately are any reflection on how you're handling Dean's death, then I'm guessing you still haven't taken care of the body. Just because Dean is gone doesn't mean his body isn't a potential vessel for something else, and from everything I've been hearing, nearly every demon on the planet right now is planning to stake their claim on—"

"Bobby, you don't understand…"

"I clearly don't understand much," Bobby said with a hitch in his breath. Sam was again reminded of his grief-stricken confession to Bobby about his relationship with his brother, and his face grew hot with regret and self-recrimination. "But what I do understand, Sam, is that you need to clean up your mess before things get worse, and believe me, they _will_ get worse if you don't hurry your ass up."

_My mess?_ Sam thought. So Bobby blamed him for the crossroads deal that Dean made. Great.

"Do you hear what I'm saying, boy?" Bobby barked.

"I can't burn the body," Sam uttered weakly.

"Sam…" Bobby warned, revving up for a fight.

"I can't burn the body because there _is_ no body," Sam said. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

The longest pause of all, and Sam began to think the connection had been severed. When Bobby spoke again, it was barely audible.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he breathed.

"No, but it's okay, though," Sam said quickly, trying to perk up his tone a little. "I've been reading up on the Trickster, and I think I've got a lead on him, and—"

"The Trickster?" Bobby asked. "What the hell does he have to do with any of this?"

"Bobby, think about it," Sam pressed. "Why else would Dean's body just disappear? The Trickster has messed with us before, more than you know, really, and I think it's happening again. If I can find him, then I think I can find Dean."

"Sam, you need to tell me the address of your motel. I'm coming out there."

"No! I'm not making this up!"

"I should have known you'd be in no shape to handle this on your own. Tell me where you are, and—"

"_NO!_" Sam screamed, surprising even himself with his sudden defensiveness. He lowered his voice sheepishly, but maintained his urgency. "Bobby, no. You don't know everything the Trickster has put us through. I know I'm right about this."

He tried to sound confident, but there was a shaky edge of hysteria to his words that he knew Bobby could hear.

"Sam…" Bobby took a deep breath. "Son," he went on slowly, "If Dean's body is gone, that only means one thing. And that one thing is not that the Trickster is playing with you—"

"Bobby, _come on_—"

"And that one thing is _not_ that Dean is alive."

And there it was. Bobby cut right to the heart of Sam's denial, and he may as well have shoved a knife into one of his lungs. Sam had to force himself to keep breathing.

"Your brother is gone, Sam. And this has to stop."

Sam held his breath against a tidal wave of sobs, his face going from warm to scorching hot, and he temporarily removed the phone from his ear as if it had bitten him. When he felt like he was finally under control again, he brought it back and could hear Bobby's patient breath on the other end.

"You're part of the Trick," Sam said hatefully.

"Sam, do _not_."

"You're not real," Sam hissed, his anger rising. "I'm gonna find you, Trickster, and when I do, I'm going to rip you apart."

"Sam!" Bobby yelled.

"Fuck you!"

Sam smashed his thumb against the disconnect button and threw the phone at the wall.

"Dean is alive," he muttered to himself, shaking. "Dean is alive. Dean is alive. Dean is alive."

And perhaps if he repeated it enough, he would really begin to believe.

"Dean is alive."

At least he hoped so.

* * *

Sam couldn't breathe.

All was darkness, and he couldn't breathe, and somehow, that was okay.

He lifted his head from his pillow, which seemed to be actually glowing with warmth and safety, and craned his neck around to see Dean lying behind him, face bathed in moonlight, features soft and watchful.

"How's my drowsy daisy?" Dean asked with a breath like summer on the wind.

"That's not my nickname," Sam answered drowsily, eyes drooping against his will.

"Sleeping Beauty?" Dean tried again.

"Mnh-mnh," Sam shook his head, refusing that one too.

Dean's hand ran down the side of Sam's face so tenderly. Like being touched by sunlight.

"Baby," Dean said, his smile evident in his voice. "My sweet baby boy."

Sam smiled, satisfied at last. He took a deep breath and began to speak.

"This must be Heav—"

* * *

He woke up in darkness. He could feel cool wind raking painfully across his sweat-soaked body. He blinked his eyes hard several times, trying to remember where he was. He was lying in bed on his side, and he could only make out two tiny green lights like electric pinpoints. The air conditioner.

Sam attempted to call Dean's name but could only manage a dry, agonizing cough. His throat burned and his lungs seized as a blazing headache pounded behind his eyes.

And Dean was gone.

Sam passed out again.


	10. Still on Earth

A/N: 'Kay, so this chapter ended up being sort of a two-parter, so instead of leaving you all hanging again, I'm posting two chapters at once. You're welcome. :) Have a happy and safe holiday, everyone!

Spoilers: I'm guessing the usual spoilers apply, but I'm too tired to figure it out right now. Nothing beyond season 4, I'm sure.

* * *

Dean stood in line at the fast food counter, too tired to even look at up at the menu board. He hadn't slept in two days except for the occasional doze behind random dumpsters in the wee hours in the morning. His clothes smelled like dirt and body odor, and his greasy hair was hidden under a baseball cap worn low to shadow his haunted eyes.

The line moved forward slowly, and he continued to stare at the floor. After two days of trying to figure out what the hell was going on, the questions bouncing around his brain had become jumbled together in a sort of ongoing buzz of sound. None of his thoughts were really discernible anymore, and yet they all insisted on speaking at once. He attempted to focus on the lessons his father had taught him years ago about how to blend into a crowd and go unnoticed, but his fatigue was getting the better of him. He could only imagine how he must look to the average restaurant patron right now.

And of course, he would never rid from his mind the image of his little brother, stumbling and incoherent in the dark, calling Dean's name as Dean cowered lamely behind the playground two nights earlier.

_I can't be sure it was really Sam,_ argued the frightened voice in his mind. _I'm supposed to be in hell right now._

But if it _was_ Sam. If for some inexplicable reason Dean had lived through his deadline with the crossroads demon, then that meant Sam was alone now. Dean had left his baby brother alone after an entire lifetime of protecting him.

_I _am_ protecting him,_ Dean silently insisted. _If I'm not in hell, then something has gone seriously wrong, and I don't want Sam involved. _

With thoughts of Sam always came the images from Dean's recurring vision, images of Sam tied up and bleeding. Days ago, he had convinced himself that he was somehow having visions of hell, of the mental and emotional torment that he was about to endure for all eternity. But if he wasn't in hell, the danger to his brother was far from over.

He finally made it to the front of the line and through the din of his thoughts, he distantly heard the cashier ask him what he would like. Dean placed his order in a disinterested monotone.

"Would you like fries with that?" The smirking, sardonic voice sent ripples down Dean's spine, and he jerked his head up to peer across the counter.

And there, clad in a white uniform and apron, wearing a cartoon-ish oversized chef's hat, stood the Trickster.

"Oh, fuck," Dean whispered. "I _am_ in hell."

The Trickster merely stared back at Dean, smiling conspiratorially.

"Unless…" Dean continued. "Wait, are _you_ in hell, too? This is all because of you, isn't it. You're fucking with us again!"

"I gotta hand it to you Winchesters, man," Trickster said, chuckling with sincere enjoyment. "I mean, Jesus! Do you ever know how to get yourselves into a pickle!"

"You listen to me, you sick son of a bitch!" Dean howled, grabbing at the Trickster's shirt, yanking him entirely over the counter and pegging him to the floor. Several shrieks sounded from the other customers and employees in the restaurant, but Dean paid no attention. "You tell me what you've done! You goddamn tell me what you've goddamn done!"

He rattled the Trickster's shoulders, rapping his head hard against the floor as he did so.

"Leave him alone!" a white-haired man called out, approaching Dean cautiously with a cell phone in hand. "I'm calling the police!"

Dean ripped his gun out of his waistband and had it cocked and aimed at the man's head faster than anyone could see him do it. "Just give me a reason, douche bag," he threatened, his eyes round and crazed.

The restaurant went totally silent and the man froze in position for long seconds. Then he slowly put his phone back in his pocket and held up his hands, inching back toward the door.

Satisfied, Dean turned his attention back to the Trickster, pressing the barrel of his gun tightly to his forehead. The Trickster laughed, unruffled.

"You know you can't kill me with that," he said.

"I'd settle for a gaping hole in your face," Dean argued. "Tell me what you've done."

"What I've done," Trickster responded. "What _I've_ done. Other than leave you two idiots completely alone? Why is it always _my_ fault? When are you going to accept that 99% of the messes you get yourself into are because of your own stupid actions?"

"Don't give me that crap!" Dean screamed. "You started all of this!"

"Did I force you to sell your soul so that you could save your dead brother, Dean? Did I?"

Dean's face pulled into an angry scowl and he pressed the gun harder into the Trickster's skull.

"So far as I can tell," Trickster went on, "the only thing I set into motion is the newfound tenderness that you and little Sammy have discovered together."

He smiled sweetly, even as Dean raised his gun high in the air and then smashed it against the Trickster's cheekbone. Several onlookers cried out, but the Trickster continued to grin, not a single mark of damage evident on his skin.

"Distance really does make the heart grow fonder, you know," he purred. "If I hadn't separated you two, you never would have come together like you have. The way I see it, you should be thanking me."

"I should be _staking_ you," Dean hissed.

"You can't tell me you're not happy, Dean," Trickster cooed. "I mean, sure, your life generally sucks, as usual. But you can't tell me that you would undo what has been done between you and Sam."

Dean bit his lip, unable to retort.

"And you can't tell me that it ever would have happened if it hadn't been for me." Trickster paused momentarily, enjoying the agony etched across Dean's features. "Everything has changed now, hasn't it, Dean? Everything is different." He smiled even more menacingly as the following words bubbled out of his mouth like toxic waste:

"_Everything is new_."

And suddenly Dean was back in bed, in the motel room in Maine, naked next to his brother who was sweetly uttering those same words into his ear. He could feel Sam's breath, the temperature of the room, the stiffening of his cock. It was as real as if it were happening all over again.

"No!" he cried, pulling himself forcefully out of the illusion and jumping to his feet. "No! You do _not_ get to be part of that!" he yelled at the Trickster.

He was shocked as he realized that the restaurant was suddenly empty. Not only empty of customers, but empty of tables and chairs, of electricity, of anything other than dust and exposed wiring. It was an abandoned building and probably had been the entire time. He turned back to see the Trickster standing now, dressed in a finely tailored white tuxedo with a vulgar red bowtie.

"I'm _already_ part of it, Dean," he entreated, holding his arms out in a posture of exaltation. "Don't you see? I got to play matchmaker without even knowing it! When is the wedding?" he burst, suddenly excited. "I want to do the toast at your reception!"

Dean turned away. He couldn't stand the triumph in the Trickster's eyes. He couldn't stand that Trickster was right, that he and Sam would never have fallen in love if it weren't for their separation at the Trickster's hands.

He couldn't stand that something so beautiful had been birthed from something so perverse. He couldn't stand that he had this hideous, heinous creature to thank for the best thing in his life.

But most of all, he couldn't stand the fact that no matter how much he loved Sam, and no matter how glad he was to be _in_ love with Sam, he couldn't help the shame clawing at his insides at the idea of anyone else knowing about it. He had no idea he had so much internalized guilt over it. He'd always seen himself as the type of person who didn't give a damn about the opinions of others, and usually that was true. But this…

And if the Trickster knew, it was likely that others knew as well. Others that would want to hurt him and Sam, or use their love against each other. And just for a moment, his mind went to the image of his father. His proud, stubborn father whom Dean had idolized and obeyed his entire life, the one person whose approval meant more to him than anything else in the world, even after his death. Was it possible that wherever John was, he knew, too? The thought made Dean's stomach drop.

"Oh, stop already," Trickster moaned. "I can hear your thoughts from across the room. Just chill, okay? Nobody knows but me."

Dean turned to him with tears of fury filling his eyes. "Bullshit."

"Think about it, Dean. Think about the kind of leverage I have over you now. Do you honestly believe I'd be willing to share that?"

That answer was miles from satisfying, but Dean could at least see the logic in it. The aching pressure on his lungs lifted a tiny bit.

"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, feeling defeated and shamed.

"I can't check in on an old friend from time to time?" the Trickster asked.

"You saved me from hell so that you could mess with me some more, right?" Dean guessed.

"Oh, please," Trickster scoffed. "Like I don't have better things to do."

"Liar. You live to torture Sam and me."

Trickster nodded. "True. You're right about that. But _save _you? No. I wouldn't. Not saying I _couldn't_. But I wouldn't."

He looked openly at Dean, and Dean could feel that he was telling the truth. He didn't know what else to say.

"I guess I just wanted to see for myself," Trickster said, savoring the words. "I wanted to see for myself the fine mess you've made of your life. Truly, Dean, you hardly need _me_ to make you miserable these days. Am I wrong?"

There was something he wasn't saying, something important glinting behind those shifty eyes, and Dean wanted to cut his head open and dig it out.

"I'm supposed to be in hell right now, and I'm not," Dean said quietly, dangerously, "and you know the reason why. I can see it all over your smug face. Now, you _will_ tell me what I want to know, or I swear that I will devote the rest of my life to hunting you and taking you down."

The Trickster's face became serious, almost solemn. He looked deeply and thoughtfully into Dean's eyes as though he were honestly struggling with some internal decision. It made Dean's blood run cold.

"What?" Dean whispered shakily. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm trying to decide just how much I really hate you," Trickster responded gently.

Dean didn't understand. "Yeah, well, don't strain yourself. I don't need anymore favors from demons, thanks."

"Ungrateful little brat," Trickster tsked, shaking his head. "The most merciful thing I could do for you is withhold the answers you're looking for. And you don't even know it. Do you have any idea how much restraint I'm exercising even as we're standing here?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Well…" he smiled mirthfully. "Something along those lines, anyway."

"I'm outta here," Dean grunted, backing away. "If you even _think_ about coming after us again—"

"You'll what?" Trickster taunted. "Drop a piano on me?"

Shaking his head in surrender, Dean turned to leave.

"Hey, Dean?" the Trickster called brightly.

Dean stopped at the door but didn't turn around.

"You're not crazy, you know. You_ are _still on Earth. And those visions you've been having? They're real."

Dean remained frozen in place, unable to respond.

"_You_ may be off the hook," Trickster said, "but little Sammy's in big trouble. You know that, don't you."

A shrill falsetto cackle burst from the Trickster's throat, causing Dean's eardrums to ring.

* * *

The high-pitched buzz of the clock radio blared wickedly through the room and Sam sat straight up in bed. Had he been dreaming?

"Dean?" he called halfheartedly.

No response, not that he'd been expecting one. He had mostly given up hope that this was some kind of nightmare he would eventually wake up from, but even still, he called Dean's name each morning just to make sure.

He realized that the alarm was still painfully rattling his eardrums, and he clapped his hand over the clock, creating immediate silence. He buried his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes roughly and sighing deeply. Another day.

His microwaveable breakfast awaiting him in the mini fridge, a fresh newspaper waiting to be cut into tiny pieces and taped to the wall, and hours upon hours of stale scenarios to revisit in his mind.

"What if Dean is really gone?" he said aloud without much emotion.

Acceptance really is a whore of a thing. A silent, creeping snake. Sure, Sam's idea that Dean was alive may have been a delusion, but by God, it was _his_ delusion. He had worked hard to keep it in place, and it had been a good friend to him during an extremely difficult time. But as the days went by, he could feel himself becoming accustomed to the new routine, to the absence of his brother. The fight was draining out of Sam. He was becoming too tired _not_ to accept the new circumstances, and that made him angriest of all. If Dean was dead and rotting in hell for all eternity, the _least_ Sam could do was spend the rest of life being as miserable poss—

_RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP_

Even before the quick knocking finished, Sam was out of bed with his gun in his hands. He was only in his boxers, and the air conditioner blew noisily over his mostly naked body. He crept to the wall and clicked the dial with his toes, turning off the air.

Total silence now, and he couldn't hear anything outside. In more than a month, he and Dean had never had a knock at the door, not even from the nonexistent housekeeping service.

Another rapid succession of knocks, and, ridiculously, the persistent, nagging rhythm felt familiar to Sam. He squinted out through the peephole in the door and saw nothing but the mostly empty parking lot outside.

"Yes?" he called out, purposely lowering his voice.

More knocking in reply.

Sam didn't like this one bit.

"It's not a good time now, all right?" he stated firmly, slowly cocking his gun with the quietest of clicks. He pointed the barrel directly at the door as he eased backwards. "Why don't you come back later?"

He impressed even himself with the easy, "love thy neighbor" cadence of his inflection, while, running through his mind and heart, was a completely different message:

_Come on in, _he thought coldly. _I could use a good kill today._

He willed his heart not to speed up, and he listened with all of his might. Footsteps, barely audible, slowly walking away outside. But Sam's instincts knew it wasn't over yet, and he was right.

Seconds later, the footsteps were booming, and with a crash, the door burst open.

"_IF YOU TAKE ONE STEP CLOSER!" _Sam screamed.

"Sam, it's me!" Dean yelled back, his own gun pointed at Sam.

Sam's breath caught in his throat for one instant, and then he flipped right back into hunter mode.

"Why are you pointing a gun at me?" Sam shrieked.

"You're pointing a gun at _me!_" Dean defended frantically.

"Where have you been?"

"Away!"

"Dead?"

"No!"

"Kidnapped?"

"No, I wasn't kidnapped!"

"So, what, you were having cocktails somewhere?"

"Sam, I needed to think!"

Breath.

"You mean you _voluntarily_ left me alone for four fucking days?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, Sam, I'm having an _exceptionally_ bad year!"

"Join the motherfucking club, Dean!"

"Oh, don't start with me."

"I'm not starting a _god-_damn thing!"

"Bitch!"

"Jerk!"

"Pansy!"

"Pervert!"

"Dip shit!"

"Ass captain!"

"Ass captain? Nice!"

"How am I supposed to trust that you're Dean?"

"Well, I guess we'll just have to keep screaming 'til your girly arm tires out!"

"My arm isn't girly!"

"Sorry, I got distracted by your girly legs!"

"Go to hell, Dean!"

"I'm _trying to_, Sam!" Dean spat through clenched teeth.

They stopped yelling for a moment to breathe again. As Dean's face turned a furious shade of purple, hysterical laughter began to bubble up Sam's throat.

"Do you think this is funny?" Dean cried, but his resolve was already breaking. His lips twitched into a half smile.

"How did you survive?" Sam giggled breathlessly.

"I don't know," Dean answered sincerely, through laughter that could have been a sob.

"Dean…"

"Get the _fuck_ over here, baby boy."

Sam dropped his gun on the bed and launched himself into Dean's open arms, nearly choking him with a noisy, vicious kiss. Dean reached deftly back with his leg and kicked the door shut, pushing Sam toward the bed without breaking the embrace.

"You smell like ass," Sam muttered, licking up and down the side of Dean's neck.

"I thought you liked it dirty," Dean answered. "I want to fuck you hard," he continued.

"As _if_," Sam exclaimed, now licking just outside of Dean's left nostril. "I don't like it _that_ dirty."

"You gonna stop me?" Dean challenged, pushing Sam down on the bed, just forcefully enough to make Sam's breath stop.

"You stupid fuck," Sam laughed, shifting his hips to the right, his long thighs disabling Dean's legs, and he plunged his forehead hard into his brother's neck in order to flip him over and pin him to the bed. A trick Dean himself had taught Sam years ago when they used to wrestle.

"You're not gonna do a thing to me until you've showered," Sam declared.

"Race you," Dean said, employing another maneuver on Sam to get out from under his clutches.

And as if the nightmare of the past days had never happened, Dean was tearing off his clothes in a mad dash to the bathroom as Sam stripped his boxers off of his legs as he jumped after Dean in hot pursuit.

"I'll kill you!" Sam shrieked.

"I've heard that before!" Dean yelled back.

* * *

Over the course of one long, hot shower, both of them had come twice, and now Dean was gently but insistently attempting to pull another orgasm out of his little brother.

Sam leaned his head against Dean's shoulder under the hot stream of water, pleading with him to stop while still squeaking and whimpering with pleasure.

"Dean…" he begged. "I can't do another one."

"One more, baby," Dean soothed. "Will you give me one more?"

"Why?" Sam pleaded, his breath hitching as Dean worked over the red and sensitive skin of his prick.

"I just…" Dean paused. He didn't really know why. All he knew was that Sam was in his arms again, after their _second_ separation, and Dean was finding himself suddenly addicted to the sounds of pleasure emanating from his brother's throat. "I just need one more," Dean whispered hotly into his ear.

Sam was powerless, putting most of his weight on Dean's sturdy frame, and he writhed and hissed in painful appreciation of Dean's masterful touch.

"Is it okay?" Dean asked, referring to the rhythm of his stroke.

Sam wriggled uncomfortably in reply.

"How about now?" Dean tried again, lightening the pressure slightly, focusing lower on Sam's shaft.

"Aah," Sam breathed, his body relaxing. That was the green light for Dean.

"I knew I'd find it," Dean said with a smile in his voice. "You gonna come for me?"

"Aah," Sam said again, his toes curling beneath him.

Sam's last two orgasms had been loud and dramatic, but with his increasingly depleted energy, this one was almost completely silent. As his shaft began to pulse and spasm in Dean's grip, it was almost as if his voice were being sucked inward, and his arms tightened around Dean's shoulders as he buried his face in Dean's neck, biting his lip and holding his breath.

"My baby," Dean whispered wetly, and Sam's whole body jerked as he came.

There wasn't much left for him to expel, but Dean could still feel the warm fluid spraying against his stomach and he closed his eyes, wrapping a strong arm around Sam's lower back. He couldn't believe how much he loved that feeling. The feeling of _Sam_ all over him.

More breathy sounds came from Sam's throat that could have either been gasps or sobs, or some combination thereof, and Dean slowed his strokes, running his other hand up and down Sam's spine to calm him.

"Good boy," Dean said. "You did so good, baby boy."

Sam made another sound, this one a little closer to a chuckle, and he finally dislodged his fingernails from Dean's shoulder blade to caress the back of Dean's head.

"You, too," he cracked, his voice hoarse but happy. "We're going to use up all the water in the state of Arizona if we don't wrap this up soon."

"Let 'em suffer," Dean joked.

But he softly extricated himself from Sam's embrace to quickly rinse the semen off of his abdomen and turn off the tap. Then he hopped out of the tub and grabbed a fresh towel off of the rack, holding it open for Sam.

Sam gave him a crooked smile. "You don't need to baby me," he said.

"Uh… Yes, I really do. Get over here."

Dean did his best to keep his tone light, but his heart was pounding.

* * *

"You're quiet," Dean said.

"'m just tired," Sam replied.

Dean sighed and kissed his brother on the top of the head. "Now really isn't the time for us to be less than honest with each other, Sam."

Sam rolled over, resting his cheek against Dean's shoulder. "You left me," he said quietly.

Pulling Sam tight and close, Dean rested his lips on Sam's head and spoke into his hair. "I'm _so_ sorry."

"How could you leave me again?" Sam asked in a near whisper.

"Sammy, I was supposed to be in hell. Hell, I _am_ supposed to be in hell. That night in the park, I couldn't be sure what I was seeing was real. I couldn't be sure of anything."

"You thought I was a demon in disguise," Sam suggested, more thoughtful than hurt.

"I don't know what I thought," Dean admitted. "I was panicked, I was tired, I…"

At a loss for words, he kissed Sam's head again, this time directly hitting the large lump left by the rock Dean had hit him with. Sam tensed.

"Ow, careful," Sam breathed.

"God, Sam. I don't know what to say."

"You didn't mean to," Sam said.

"Well, I didn't exactly slip," Dean argued.

"No, but I know that you were trying to protect me. It's okay."

"It's not okay."

"Dean, I understand."

"Please don't say that."

"I was wrong to try to come with you. I should have just—"

"Fuck, Sammy, would you just stop?" Dean burst, and Sam immediately withdrew from his arms, pulling back toward the edge of the bed.

"Dean…"

"Would you stop letting me off the hook? Please? It's one fuck-up after another with me, I get us into mess after mess, and instead of knocking me upside the head like I deserve, you just pick up the pieces and act like it's _your_ fault!"

"That's not what I—"

"You're a goddamn enabler, Sam! You let me get away with my shit. I did it for Dad, and now you're doing it for me."

Sam was quiet, stricken. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"That's just the point!" Dean argued. "Stop being sorry! This whole thing is my fault!"

Sam lowered his eyes, his face turning to stone as he skillfully masked his emotions.

"Oh, come on, don't turn off like that," Dean said more gently. "I just… God only knows, Sam, and I literally mean that God is the only one who _can_ know why I'm not in hell right now or just exactly how long our luck is going to hold out. And if the worst is yet to happen, I want this on the table. I don't want you spending the rest of your life thinking you could've done something different."

"You wouldn't have had to make the deal if I didn't get myself killed, Dean," Sam said quietly. "It's my mess. Just like Bobby said."

Dean's mouth hung open for a moment. "Are you kidding me?" he demanded, pulling Sam's chin toward him. "You feel guilty for getting _killed_? Jesus, kid, what else have you been blaming yourself for? World War II, maybe? The Titanic? And what the hell does Bobby have to do with it?"

"I'm not being unreasonable, Dean," Sam insisted. "All my life you've tried to take care of me, and all my life, I've made it completely impossible."

Dean began to chuckle.

"This isn't funny!" Sam shouted stubbornly, but he allowed Dean to kiss his cheek.

"You got me there," Dean said. "It's not funny at all. You are totally impossible."

Sam lowered his head sadly.

"But that's why I love you so much," Dean added.

"Shut up," Sam groaned, fighting a grin of his own. He looked at Dean shyly and blushed at the smoldering love emanating from his brother's eyes.

"I love you so much," Dean repeated, deliberately emphasizing each word.

"I love you, Dean," Sam agreed over the quickening of his heart. "When I thought I lost you again…"

He was cut off by the warm, wet pressure of Dean's mouth on his. Damp, showered, minty Dean, so intoxicatingly present, so emphatically real, and Sam felt some parts of his body melt while other parts became rock hard.

"Dean," Sam argued weakly.

"I know," Dean moaned in agreement, his stiff cock pressing against Sam's, and they both shuddered until their toes curled.

"No, Dean," Sam persisted. "There are some things…" He was cut off by another sloppy kiss. "…that I have to tell you," Sam continued once he could breath again.

"I know," Dean repeated, kissing his way down Sam's neck and to his chest. "I have stuff to tell you too."

"Well, don't you think we should… _fuck!_" Sam interrupted himself as Dean's full lips attached themselves to his nipple.

"Mnh-mnh," Dean refused, performing rapid circles with his tongue. "Later," he murmured.

"Dean…"

"Later," Dean said firmly, planting a fingertip at the base of Sam's balls, and Sam went into such spasms that he could no longer argue.

Dean walked his fingers down, down, down, teasing the bottom of Sam's crack and separating the muscular cheeks slowly. Sam raised his pelvis reflexively to allow Dean better access, and Dean was suddenly overwhelmed by the sight in front of him.

Sam. Naked Sam. Naked, muscular Sam, abs rippling, arms flexing, eyes shut tight, mouth open wide, and his impressive hard dick bobbing right in front of Dean's face, Sam's ass practically begging for attention. And Dean wanted nothing more than to administer to him, but he found himself paralyzed by white hot lust.

"I've never…" he whispered nonsensically. "I can't believe…"

"Dean, _please_," Sam begged, and as his hole tensed against the tip of Dean's finger, Dean found himself once again in possession of his faculties.

He sprang forward, positioning himself between Sam's legs, his own shaft rubbing softly against his brother's sack.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said gruffly. "Do we still have the…"

"It's in the drawer," Sam supplied.

Dean awkwardly bent himself sideways, reaching for the drawer next to the bed. He yanked it open and nearly burst out laughing as he saw the small, discreet bottle of drugstore brand lube sitting sheepishly next to an oversized King James Bible.

"What?" Sam said, detecting Dean's restrained chuckle.

Dean couldn't help himself. He grabbed the bible and held it up seriously.

"Do you have a minute to spare for a message from Jesus Christ?"

Sam's eyes opened wide with shock. "You're gonna burn in hell, Dean," he said, holding back his own laughter.

"Apparently not," Dean countered with a wicked grin. "Not today, anyway."

"Put that thing away!"

Dean looked at the bible and then down at his own crotch. "Which thing?" he asked innocently.

"The bible, sicko!" Sam cried, laughing in spite of himself. "If there is a God, we are so fucked."

"Nah, that's my job," Dean said. He tossed the book back in the drawer and grabbed the lube, squirting a generous glob onto his hand and rubbing his palms together quickly to warm them up. He couldn't help but notice the adorable smile Sam was giving him. "What?" he asked.

"Are we going to do this, then?" Sam inquired.

"You mean…" Dean started.

"Make love," Sam whispered, a blush creeping across his cheeks.

Dean hesitated briefly. "We don't _have_ to…"

"I want to," Sam uttered quickly.

"I want to, too," Dean immediately replied. "Not like last time."

"I know," Sam assured him. "We weren't ourselves last time."

"I should never have tried to…"

"It's okay. We were both messed up then. But things are okay now, right?"

Sam's eyes drew slightly down at the corners, just a trace of worry darkening his relaxed features.

"Yeah," Dean said, only half honestly. He still hadn't told Sam about his run-in with the Trickster. He still hadn't told Sam that he had continued to have those visions of Sam tied up, even after hell had somehow been called off.

Things really weren't completely okay, and Dean wasn't sure they ever would be. But that was the life of a Winchester, wasn't it? There were really only two things that Dean and his brother had ever been able to count on. The first was their love for each other. And the second was that there was always more evil shit waiting to happen. The life of a Winchester. The life of a hunter. So was it really wrong to want to just put off the serious stuff for one day? For one moment?

Sam lying there, all naked and exposed, all spread-legged and trusting, all innocence and all sex, all at the same time. And how could Dean ruin this moment by bringing up business? He couldn't. And he knew his brother's facial expressions well enough to know that Sam didn't want him to either.

"Yeah," Dean finally repeated. "Things are okay now, little brother."

And if ever telling a half truth had netted a reward as brilliant as the wide, toothy smile Sam was beaming right now, Dean was hard pressed to remember it. "Everything is perfect," he added, near tears at the joy and relief on Sam's face. He had forgotten how good it felt to make his little brother smile. So instead of giving into the water works, he mirrored Sam's smile back at him, and rubbed his hands together some more.

"I love you," Dean said.

"I love you," Sam said.

And Dean slowly began working his fingertip into Sam's opening as Sam began once more to writhe under Dean's touch.


	11. He Knows Everything

It was like time had stopped.

Dean felt the familiar haze of lust and fuzzy happiness falling over him as he looked into Sam's eyes, and maybe it was his imagination, but the afternoon sunlight shone a bit warmer than before. He was reminded of their time in Maine, of all those days they had spent in bed together, talking, laughing, touching. Shutting themselves far away from the world where nothing bad could ever reach them. Dean longed for those days again.

"Who needs the world when I've got you?" Dean said aloud.

"Hmm?" Sam asked, his legs resting on Dean's thighs, his hips wriggling slightly as Dean continued to stretch him open with his fingers.

"Could stay like this forever," Dean hummed, almost to himself. "This is all I want."

Sam smiled. Dean knew he wasn't making any sense. And he also knew that Sam understood him completely. As only Sam could.

"Dean, I'm ready," he whispered huskily.

"I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for this," Dean responded.

And he scooted forward on his knees, moaning appreciatively as Sam raised his legs, offering himself up. Dean squeezed more lube onto his dick and held it steady, preparing to enter.

"I'm clean, you know," Dean said a little shyly. "I wouldn't do this unless I'd been tested. I should have said so the last time."

"Shh," Sam said, shaking his head. "We don't need to talk about that anymore."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief, perfectly happy to let their previous failed attempt at intercourse to fall away from his memory forever. "I'd never do anything to hurt you," he said.

Sam chuckled under his breath, as if hearing something completely obvious. "I trust you," Sam replied.

Dean leaned in for one more kiss, and then reached to the bedside table for the bottle of Jack. "Drink," he instructed, holding the bottle to Sam's lips.

"I don't need it," Sam shook his head.

"It'll relax you. It'll make this better."

Sam acquiesced, opening his mouth and taking a deep swallow. "You have some, too," he said, shuddering adorably as the burning liquid caused his eyes to water. Dean nodded, taking his turn with the whisky. He immediately felt his body relax and most of his nervousness quickly subsided, replaced by a delicious, pulsing swirl of energy spiraling out of the center of his chest.

"I love you," he said again.

"You said that already," Sam chided.

"'Cause it's still true."

Sam ran his hand down the front of Dean's face. "Stupid," he scoffed reflexively, then immediately rephrased. "I love you, Dean."

Dean displayed a lopsided grin as he steadied himself once more at the entrance of Sam's body. At the first touch of warmth upon his prick, he remembered the dream he'd had about Sam that night in the park. The dream where Sam had been on top, and Dean had loved every glorious, submissive minute of it. And as he could now feel Sam's tight insides slowly sheathing his slippery organ, he simultaneously remembered in detail the feeling of Sam entering him.

And maybe it was the alcohol, or the lust, or even just the lack of sleep, but Dean felt that all-too-familiar sensation of the room turning around him, and that wild, unsettling, and somehow wonderful impression that as he looked into Sam's eyes, he was actually looking at himself.

"We're the same," he grunted, pushing delicately in and out.

At the sound of Dean's desire-ridden voice, Sam compulsively grabbed own his cock, squeezing it tightly against a premature orgasm.

"You okay?" Dean asked, hips gyrating almost imperceptibly side to side as he made himself comfortable inside Sam's body.

"You turn me on so goddamn much," Sam blurted through clenched teeth, shutting his eyes in tense concentration.

"I didn't know that was a bad thing," Dean joked.

Sam inhaled deeply and let it out through his mouth. "It's like every word you speak, Dean, is… I don't want to come too soon."

"You want another drink?" Dean offered.

Sam shook his head no. "Just… Don't talk."

Dean stopped his movements until Sam opened his eyes and smiled slyly, indicating that he was kidding.

"Dick," Dean muttered.

"Pussy," Sam answered.

"No, thanks," was Dean's cheeky reply. "You okay?"

"Think so," Sam nodded, eyes still tightly shut.

Dean was still another moment. "Can I please see your eyes?" he asked with an almost embarrassed tone.

Sam breathed deeply again, his lips quivering slightly as he let the breath out, and when his eyes opened, they were big and watery and full of that crazy, all-out, butt-naked devotion that literally made Dean dizzy. He could feel himself mirroring Sam's emotion right back at him, and without another word, he gripped his brother's knees and started to thrust.

They both exhaled sharply. There was a whisper of pain across Sam's face, but his mouth quickly shifted from a slight grimace to a pleasurable O, and he fought to keep his eyes on Dean. Dean pushed in farther as he felt Sam easily loosening up to accept more of him.

"Does it hurt?" Dean whispered breathlessly.

"No," Sam answered with a slightly surprised smile.

"Can I go harder?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

The thrusting picked up its steady rhythm as Dean's thighs slapped softly against Sam's ass.

Sam's mouth opened even wider and his eyes shut again as he pulled his legs even higher.

"Please let me see you," Dean wheezed, gripping Sam's thighs until his knuckles went white.

Sam fought once more to open his eyes, and he reached up for Dean's head, pulling him down on top of him so they were face to face, their noses brushing lightly against each other as Dean worked.

"Holy _fuck_, Dean," Sam whispered in between soft squeaks. "I can't believe how good…"

"Harder?" Dean asked again, already feeling the thrill of impending orgasm beginning to build at the base of his balls.

Sam nodded quickly, bracing his hands around Dean's neck in preparation.

Once more the thrusts became faster, harder, and deeper, and once more, Sam's eyes closed up tight as a long, low moan escaped his gaping mouth.

"Let me see you," Dean urged even though his own eyes were only half open.

"Dean, I can't…"

"I want to see your eyes, little brother."

Sam's forehead wrinkled as he raised his eyebrows and peeked up at Dean. Tears began to stream then, and his hands covered either side of Dean's face. He tried to form words to express what he was feeling, but nothing came out.

"It's always been you, baby boy," Dean choked, and then Sam's eyes rolled into the back of his head as hot come shot out of him, covering his stomach, surprising them both.

And as Sam's cock went into spasms, his ass clenched tightly around Dean, causing him to cry out as his own orgasm was forced from his body. His head went down hard onto Sam's chest and over the next few seconds, it felt like his body was completely out of his control.

His heart pounded and his lungs expelled more air than he had to give. His hips thrust almost violently in and out as he gripped the sheets next to Sam's head. He heard an animal cry, and he couldn't tell if it was him, Sam, or both of them.

He almost couldn't take in another breath with the chokehold Sam had around him, and yet he kept riding and riding, until he was sure he would turn himself inside out. He felt both the heat of Sam's breath and the coolness of it against his sweaty face, and when he tried to articulate the contrasting sensations, he only babbled incoherently. It wasn't until he felt Sam's arms pulling him more forcefully downward that he opened his eyes and realized that Sam was talking to him.

"It's okay, Dean. Come here," Sam whispered with concern in his eyes.

"Huh?" Dean asked, and his voice sounded watered down like he had been crying.

"I've got you," Sam assured him, wiping what indeed seemed to be tears from Dean's eyes.

_Well, I'll be damned_, Dean thought. _Tears again._

"I won't let you go, Dean," Sam promised, pulling Dean's face down into the crook of his neck.

"How do you know?" Dean inquired desperately, realizing that his underlying fear of separation had sprung to the surface with his orgasm.

"I just know," Sam said, blowing gently on Dean's face to cool him down. "Sssh. I've got you."

Dean breathed deeply and allowed himself to be soothed. They lay together for long minutes, scorching skin against scorching skin as Sam ran just-sharp-enough fingernails back and forth over Dean's scalp, eliciting full-body shivers from his older brother.

As Dean finally began to nod off, Sam's soothing words still drifting into his ear, he distantly observed that he was still _inside_ of Sam, and it felt too good, to safe, to bother pulling out.

* * *

When Dean woke up, the sun had gone down and the room was dimly lit by the lamp between the beds. He was facing the table where Sam usually sat, and he was a little alarmed when he saw the laptop on the table, closed up and unused.

"Sammy?" he whispered hoarsely.

A rough hand gently closed over his shoulder and turned him around. He smiled when he saw Sam lying there in his boxers, gazing at him.

"Hi," Dean said shyly.

"Hi," Sam agreed.

And it was like their relationship was brand new all over again. After everything he and Sam had shared in the last few months, Dean thought he had seen it all. He thought that he and Sam were as close as two people could possibly be, and that they knew each other inside and out.

But now, after having experienced an even deeper level of closeness and intimacy, Dean once more felt like he was looking at a total stranger. He felt once more like the whole world had changed somehow, like he was seeing his whole life through a completely different filter. It was scary. It was also really, really good.

They both chuckled after a few seconds of awkward silence.

"I don't know what to say to you," Dean admitted, grinning like a mental patient.

"Yeah," Sam answered, lowering his eyes momentarily. "Was I… okay?"

"G'ohhhh," Dean breathed, at a loss for sufficient words. _"Okay?" _he demanded. "Did you happen to notice my head exploding into tiny little pieces?"

Sam laughed. "I was hoping that was a good thing."

"Good?" Dean repeated incredulously. "Kid, you're gonna have to expand your vocabulary. You're a goddamn _thunderfuck_."

Sam's eyes went wide, and he looked a bit nervous. "Is _that_ good?"

"The _best_," Dean answered seriously. "Better than the best. _Stupidly_ amazing."

Sam laughed again. "Okay, Dean."

"Splendiferous, even! Cock-tastic! Ow!"

Sam punched Dean's chest, nearly knocking him off the bed. But Sam was laughing hard now, and that was a good thing. As long as Dean could make Sam smile, he knew they would be okay. No matter how much their relationship continued to change over time or how many uncomfortable adjustments they had to go through, Dean felt better knowing that he could still make his brother smile.

And so they smiled at each other for a few more minutes as Dean grazed his fingertips up and down Sam's naked arm.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"Few hours," Sam said. "I hope you don't mind… I know you don't like to sleep totally naked…"

Dean looked down and realized that he, too, was wearing a fresh pair of boxers. "You dressed me?" he asked disbelievingly.

Sam nodded. "You were really out."

"I guess so," Dean agreed. "Thanks."

"Sure."

More silence crept in, but thankfully a touch less awkward this time.

"Oh, and…" Sam began, turning over and reaching down to the floor. He came back up with two sweating bottles of beer. "I thought you might…"

"Oh, God, yes!" Dean shouted, taking a beer and sitting up so he could open it and take a long drink. "You _do_ know me!" he exclaimed, wiping his mouth with a wink.

"I try," Sam said, tipping his own bottle to his lips.

"I kept having dreams about you while we were apart," Dean said thoughtfully. "Really good dreams."

Sam nodded. "Me, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yup."

Dean took another swallow. "I wonder if they were the same."

They both thought about it and then simultaneously blurted, "You were fucking me."

Dean was immediately surprised at himself for admitting that, and Sam was immediately shocked at what he had just heard.

"Wait, I was fuckingyou?" he asked.

Dean's eyes darted right and left before landing back on Sam. "No."

"Did you just say that _I _was fucking_ you_?" Sam demanded again.

"No," Dean repeated flatly.

"Yes, you did, Dean!" Sam shouted gleefully. "You said that I was fucking you! You're a pansy little dream bottom!"

"No, I'm not!" Dean argued. "It's not my fault!" he added quickly. Then, "_I'm_ the boy!"

Sam guffawed hard, nearly spilling his drink. "Sounds like your subconscious mind isn't so sure about that, huh, Matilda?"

"That's not my nickname!"

"How 'bout Bernice? Bettina? Hortense?"

"Sammy…" Dean warned, blushing ferociously.

"Why, Prudence Winchester," Sam declared in a bad southern accent. "You are as red as the setting sun!"

"You're goin' down, bitch," Dean growled.

He let his beer drop from his hand as he lunged across the bed before Sam could get away. In seconds, they were rolling around on the floor between the beds, Sam shrieking with agonizing laughter as Dean held him down and tickled every inch of his body. Dean hadn't done this since they were very, very young, and he took sadistic pride in the fact that he could still find every sensitive spot his brother had.

"Dean…" Sam begged between yelps. "Can't breathe!"

"Serves you right, girlie boy," Dean announced. "Say you're sorry!"

"Say you're Mildred!" Sam spat defiantly.

"Oh, you will rue the day…"

And Dean pushed his tickle torture into full throttle until Sam was writhing on the floor like he was possessed of a demon, his voice hoarse with screams and his face streaming with tears of laughter.

Dean could have kept on going, but a loud series of knocks from the other side of their wall caused both him and Sam to sit up and become instantly quiet.

"What time is it?" Dean whispered.

Sam looked at the clock. "Shit," he whispered back. "It's 3 AM."

They smiled at each other mischievously, then turned their heads to the wall.

"Sorry!" they both called out, giggling like children.

"You asshole," Sam said, pulling himself to his feet and trudging back to the fridge for more beer.

"And don't you forget it," Dean replied. "Next time I'll take you over my knee."

He accepted the new beer that Sam offered him and popped the cap.

"Truce?" Sam asked, holding out his hand.

"For now," Dean grumbled, shaking Sam's hand. Then he thought twice of it and pecked Sam on the lips. "We're a little beyond handshakes, don't you think?"

Sam playfully shoved Dean in response.

* * *

As the sun rose high enough to shine into their room, Sam and Dean were both awake and lying silently in each others arms. Sam was on his back, and Dean was nestled at his side, his face resting on Sam's bare chest. His eyelids lowered languorously as Sam stroked the back of his head, but he refused to fall asleep. He was too happy.

"What is that?" Dean asked.

From his position, he was facing the far wall, and for the first time, he noticed all of the information Sam had compiled in the last few days.

After a brief hesitation, Sam said, "I thought the Trickster had taken you from me."

Dean's breath stopped momentarily and he tightened his hold on Sam's chest. "And you were planning to go after him," he said, clearly displeased.

"Should I have just done nothing?"

"Sammy, you know the Trickster is never found unless he wants to be."

"That's not true," Sam disagreed. "I found him last time."

"Because he got tired of the game and let you win," Dean muttered, a little more bluntly than he had intended. He heard a hitch in Sam's breath and instantly felt guilty. "I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't mean… The Trickster isn't just dangerous, okay? He's completely nuts. I don't want you getting hurt again."

"Right, because abandoning me and letting me think you were in hell wasn't hurtful at all," Sam replied.

Almost as a reflex, Dean felt an argument about to spew out of him, but he clamped his mouth shut against it. He didn't want to fight, and in fairness, he pretty much deserved Sam's anger.

"I'm just saying," he went on cautiously, "I don't want you making anymore moves against him without me, okay? He could be more dangerous than ever."

Sam didn't want to give in, so he remained silent.

"How did you figure out, though?" Dean asked curiously. "That he wasn't messing with you this time?"

"My eyes."

"Hmm?"

"My eyes in the mirror. They were too real. Trickster never got my eyes right."

Dean looked into Sam's eyes and nodded. He thought he knew what Sam meant, even without a full explanation. Sam stared back at him probingly.

"Dean? Do you know something you're not telling me?"

Dean sighed heavily. He had hoped to avoid this conversation for at least a few more hours. Oh, the life of a hunter. He sat up in bed and looked at Sam seriously.

"I saw him," Dean said.

Sam sat bolt upright as well. "When?"

"Yesterday. Just before I came here."

"And you didn't tell me?" Sam nearly shouted.

"I'm telling you now, Sam."

"Well, where was he? What did he want?"

"To rub my nose in the shit stain of our lives, apparently," Dean mumbled angrily.

"What?"

"He knows everything, Sam. He knows about _us_."

Sam's face drained of nearly all its color. "How?" he whispered.

"How does he know anything?" Dean asked. "I don't know. He just knows. And God only knows what kind of power he could wield in the demon world with that kind of information."

"What else did he say?"

"He said that you're in trouble, Sammy. He knew about the vision I had of you getting sliced up."

"He's lying," Sam shook his head. "We already decided that wasn't a real vision, remember? That things just got jumbled up because of the transference. I'm fine."

Dean stared at him fearfully.

"What?" Sam asked.

"I've been having that same vision over and over for the last two days," he answered somberly. "I'm pretty sure it's real."

Sam instinctively pulled the blankets up around his stomach, folding his arms protectively across his chest. "So we have to find the Trickster," he said, the break in his voice betraying his fear. "Make him tell us what he knows."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sam."

"Dean…"

"I'm not sure we really _want_ to hear everything he knows."

"What does that mean?"

"I think he's figured out why I'm not in hell."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "All the more reason to find him!"

"Sam, no!" Dean stood up and paced over to the window, peering outside nervously.

"Dean, what if he has something to do with it?"

"I don't think so."

"But if he's the reason you're still here, he could just as easily reverse it and take you away again."

"I really don't think it's because of him, Sam."

"But how can you know that?"

"Because you didn't see his face!" Dean yelled, leaving a blistering silence in the room. He turned slowly to see that Sam had lowered his eyes, his feelings hurt once more.

_God, this used to be so much easier,_ Dean thought, remembering the days when he and Sam didn't take each other's outbursts so personally. Ever since their relationship had changed, it felt like every conversation they shared had become an emotional minefield. He took another breath and tried again.

"Sam, I don't know why, but I believe him. He doesn't want us to know why I'm still on earth, and frankly, I'm glad. It was almost like he was protecting me by not telling me."

Sam scoffed. "And why would he do that?"

"I don't know, okay? It's just a feeling I got."

Dean remembered once more that look on Trickster's face, all that mischief and glee suddenly replaced by seriousness, even indecision. He had never seen the Trickster look so unsure, and it chilled him down to his bone marrow to think about it. And somewhere, far beyond the edges of his mind, he could feel something lurking, some memory that wasn't quite there, some dangerous idea like an almost imperceptible movement one sees out of the corner of the eye. Deep down, Dean knew what the Trickster knew. He knew why he wasn't in hell, even if he couldn't readily remember. But he also knew that whenever he went too far down that line of thinking, he became nearly sick with fear. He shivered and pulled away from the thought. Whatever it was, it wasn't safe, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

Feeling suddenly cold, Dean hurried back to the bed and crawled under the covers. He desperately wanted to cuddle, to rest his face on Sam's chest again and feel his brother's arms around him, but he could sense Sam's tension, and he didn't feel exactly welcome getting closer. He laid his head on the pillow instead and sighed.

"Let's just forget it for now," he mumbled. "At least nobody else knows anything."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them after Sam remained silent for an uncomfortably long time. "Sammy?" he asked.

A loud, wet swallow emanated from Sam's throat, and his voice cracked as he said, "Bobby knows."

It was Dean's turn to go completely still. His whole body broke out in painful goose bumps, and he could feel a cold sweat accumulating across his forehead.

"Come again?" he asked in a tone that sounded almost threatening.

Sam swallowed again and pulled the blanket even more tightly around himself. "I talked to Bobby. When you ran away, I called him, and I didn't know what to do, and—"

"You mean he knows that I'm not in hell, right?" Dean pressed, sitting up and examining Sam's face closely. "That's all you told him? That something went weird with the crossroads deal? Right?"

Dean's heart was pounding in his ears, and he could taste acid in the back of his throat. He could feel his face beginning to fall as Sam finally looked into his eyes with all the heartfelt sorrow of a dog who has messed on the rug.

"Dean, I told him about us," Sam whispered. "He knows everything."

Dean couldn't respond. His face fell into his hands, and his hands fell onto the pillow, still holding his face. "_Sammy,_" Dean breathed.

"I was scared!" Sam yelled, suddenly furious. "You ran away, Dean! As if things weren't bad enough already, and you just fucking _took off!_ What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to keep your fucking mouth shut!" Dean wailed, pushing himself out of the bed, knocking pillows to the ground in the process, and slamming his hand on the table.

"What did he say?" Dean demanded loudly, pacing the room. "Goddamn it, Sammy, what the hell is wrong with you? Did he say anything?"

Dean's train of thought was skipping around faster than he could keep up with it, and pointless questions continued to gurgle out of his mouth as he made his best effort not to yank every last hair out of his head.

"He didn't really say anything," Sam said quietly. "He was just quiet for a minute, and then we only talked about the crossroads deal."

"Well, what the hell does that mean?" Dean asked.

"I think he thought I was babbling because I was upset," Sam whispered nearly under his breath. "I don't think he believed me."

"Really?" Dean asked, ceasing his frenetic movement and gazing at Sam hopefully.

"Well, try not to sound so pleased about it," Sam grumbled.

"Sam, I'm not pleased about any of this. Don't be like that."

"Like what? Unashamed of what we have together?"

"Sam…"

"Whatever happened to the Dean who held hands with me over the table in the diner? The Dean who asked Clara to help plan a romantic dinner for me? You weren't embarrassed then."

Dean shook his head. "That's different, Sam. Okay? It's just not the same thing. Bobby is like family."

"_I'm_ your family," Sam insisted, sounding shocked and hurt. "Aren't I?"

Sam stared at him painfully, and Dean couldn't stand that he was the reason for that pain. He supposed these feelings had been bubbling under the surface for some time now, but since he and Sam had been spending so much time cut off from the world, he hadn't had any reason to deal with this. But realizing the Trickster new everything that had been going on, he couldn't deny it to himself any longer.

"Dean, are you ashamed of me?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Instead of responding, Dean came back to the bed and buried his face in Sam's stomach, kissing his abs and wrapping his arms tightly around his back.

"You are the only good thing in my life, Sam," he gushed honestly.

"You didn't answer my question."

Dean hesitated. "People are never going to understand us, Sammy," he whispered. "Bobby… Dad…"

"Dad's dead."

"Yeah, but…"

"But?"

Sam stared at Dean expectantly, but Dean couldn't come up with anything to say.

"But you're still letting his opinion run your life," Sam finished for him, pushing Dean off of his stomach and getting out of the bed. "Unbelievable."

"Sam, it's not like that."

"What am I to you, Dean?" Sam yanked a pair of pants out of his bag and jammed his feet into the legs. "One of those dirty magazines you'd sneak into the bathroom when Dad wasn't around to see?"

"Sam, no! I love you!"

"Yeah, because Dad isn't here to make you feel bad about it." Sam threw on a T-shirt and reached for his shoes and socks.

"That's not true," Dean argued, staring helplessly from the bed. "I would feel this way even if Dad were still here. I've always loved, you, Sammy!"

"And would you be willing to tell him about it?" Sam asked, pausing with a shoelace in each hand. Dean's face went red, but he didn't answer. "That's what I thought," Sam stated, tying his second shoe and grabbing his wallet.

"Sam, where the hell are you going?"

"That's the difference between you and me, Dean. I would do anything… _anything _for you."

"I would do anything for you!" Dean agreed. "I fucking _have_!"

"Except go against our dad's wishes," Sam said simply. "And you're ashamed of me."

Dean punched the mattress in exasperation. "Do you mean to tell me that you could really look our dad, John Winchester, in the eye and tell him that we're in love with each other?"

Sam steeled his shoulders and trained his eyes harshly upon Dean. "_Yes_," he said with a sincerity so perfect and so sharp that it made Dean lose his breath. "I am not ashamed of you, Dean. I would tell Dad, I would tell the world, I would tell God Himself, and if He said that I'm wrong in loving you, I would happily suggest He go fuck Himself, because He doesn't get to dictate who I am or what I do, and neither does Dad or anyone else. It's called personal responsibility, Dean. It's incredibly liberating. You should try it some time."

And with that, Sam turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Sam, come on!"

"I tired of looking at you right now, Dean."

"But you can't just—_aaaaaahhhh!_"

Dean shrieked like a wild animal and collapsed onto the bed, convulsing violently. He felt the familiar sensation of knives piercing his skull and poking into his brain as everything went dark around him. Voices in the dark whispering, someone laughing, and frightening images not quite visible but just on the brink of showing themselves. He expected to see Sam hanging again, the same grisly image he had been seeing over and over for the last few days, leaving him upset and nauseated but with no clear idea of how to proceed. His body tensed in fear as he felt the image coming closer and closer.

But when it finally arrived, it was different. It was silent. Completely silent, all except for:

_Click. Click._

_Click. Click._

Dean found himself in the desert again. He was standing in front of that damn plateau, staring at it dumbly.

_Click. Click._

_Click. Click._

He realized the clicking was coming from him. Or that he was causing it, anyway.

Before him on the rocky side of the plateau, there was a light switch. A common, everyday light switch like you'd find in a house. Above the switch in big green letters was the word ON, and below in red letters it said OFF. And Dean stood next to the plateau, flipping the switch between on and off. On and off.

_Click. Click._

_Click. Click. _

And as he did so, the desert was alternately cast into the darkness of night, and the blinding light of day. On and off. Day and night.

_Click. Click. _

And there was something going on behind him. Something like a memory that he didn't want to remember. Some conversation that he knew he'd heard before, but that he was desperately afraid of hearing again. And yet the curiosity was driving him mad. He wanted so much to know what he wasn't remembering and why it felt so dangerous to him, and why this desert couldn't decide what time of day it was.

Against Dean's better judgment, he began to slowly turn around, peeking back over his shoulder. Out of the very corner of his eye, he saw a green park bench with a small, dark haired girl sitting at the edge, staring at him darkly, her deep voice oozing out of her in a deafening whisper:

"You shouldn't be here, Dean Winchester."

Dean gasped painfully, regaining consciousness on the floor of the motel room, the fog clearing from his vision to see Sam staring down at him fearfully, Sam's strong arm braced under Dean's neck, supporting him.

"Dean! Can you hear me?"

"Sammy," Dean whispered. "Water…"

Sam reached for a bottle next to the bed and poured some water over Dean's lips. "You had a vision," Sam said, remembering the feeling well.

Dean nodded.

"Same one?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "No. But it's about the same thing. I can feel it."

"What do you feel like doing?" Sam inquired, sounding unsure of whether or not he wanted to hear the answer.

Closing his eyes against his throbbing headache, Dean took a deep breath and responded.

"We're going back to the desert."

Sam sighed heavily. "Well, fuck."


	12. Magic Ropes

A/N: At last, a new chapter! You are all saints for waiting so patiently. More coming, of course. (And sooner than six months from now! I swear!) This picks up where we left off, so feel free to flip back and refresh yourself on all that's happened.

Spoilers: A specific one for season 1, and general stuff to the end of season 3. Again, canon is _completely_ out the window at this point, so purists be warned.

* * *

They had spent weeks in their Sedona motel room, and yet, upon their final exit, the space seemed as cold and meaningless as it had the day they arrived.

Sam remembered leaving their room for the last time in Maine; his heart still ached at the memory, the sense that he was leaving behind a part of himself within those hallowed walls. But not here. Too much ugliness had happened here. Too much hurt and dishonesty. Too much fear.

The one good thing this room ever provided was a space for him and Dean to make love for the first time, but as beautiful as it was, Sam wished it could have happened somewhere better. Somewhere more special.

Dean waited impatiently in the open door, slipping on his sunglasses against the late morning sun, his back to the room as Sam did a last look around to make sure they had everything. At least, that was what Sam pretended to be doing. In reality, he was grasping for any excuse he could find to keep Dean the hell away from the desert.

"Sam. Seriously." Dean barked with more than a touch of annoyance.

"I'm just double-checking," Sam replied quietly.

"You're quintuple-checking. _A__nd_ stalling," Dean stated, pegging Sam's motives perfectly.

Irritated at having been caught, Sam hoisted his overstuffed bag onto his shoulder and shoved past his brother roughly, pushing the motel key against Dean's chest.

"I don't want this," Dean argued, tossing the key back onto the table where it landed with a flat metallic clink. "Hey, wait up!" he added, jogging after Sam toward the Impala.

* * *

The drive wasn't much better.

As the small piece of civilization near their motel gradually faded into the absolute nothingness of the desert road around them, so Sam's militant stubbornness melded into an undercurrent of unbearable dread, and a nearly uncontrollable sadness.

Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, to argue, to plead. Whatever it took for Dean to see that going back to the desert was the worst possible idea. But every time he turned to his brother, he saw Dean's lips purse even more tightly as he white-knuckled the steering wheel, clearly unwilling to discuss the matter.

And as Sam's desperation began to grow, he became overwhelmed with all of the feelings engulfing him, the anger at Dean's stubbornness, the fear, the certainty that they were headed for complete destruction. And before he knew it, tears were squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. He turned his head to the window with embarrassment.

"You really gonna cry your way out of this?" Dean asked skeptically.

Nope. If it were a stall tactic, Sam wouldn't have tried to hide it. It was an honest reaction to an impossible situation, a reaction for which his father had frequently admonished him as a child, and he felt just as humiliated now.

_Soldiers don't cry,_ John would say sternly, always followed by a quick exit, leaving Dean to deal with the emotional fallout.

When Sam didn't argue, Dean glanced at him again, saw Sam's trembling lip, saw his total inability to look him in the eye.

"Sammy?" he asked softly, the raspy hardness of his voice finally beginning to crack.

"I want to see Clara," Sam whispered, still facing the window.

Dean chuckled quietly despite the situation. "Sammy..."

"She still thinks we're coming back, Dean. What if we never see her again?"

"I'm more worried about never experiencing her apple pie again..."

"Dean, I'm serious."

Dean nodded at his younger brother. "I know, Sam."

"Then why are you doing this? You know the desert is a bad move. You _know_ something isn't right out here."

"Exactly," Dean agreed, squinting out at the dead landscape surrounding them. "We're hunters. We've made a career out of 'not right.'"

"But we were going to stop," Sam pleaded. "We agreed in Maine that we were going to stop hunting."

"No, we agreed that we would get me out of my deal, and _then_ stop hunting."

"And we've done that!" Sam cried out. "You're free!"

"Sam, come on. We still don't know how that happened."

"Why does it matter?" Sam whined.

"And that's not even the point anymore," Dean continued. "The visions aren't just about us, Sammy. Whatever is going on out here, it's bigger than us now. We have a responsibility to take it on."

Sam spoke under his breath, "Well, give the fucking responsibility to someone else, then."

"You can be a dick if you want, but you know I'm right," snapped Dean.

"You shouldn't be here," Sam said even more quietly.

"God, Sammy, you can be such a brat sometimes, you know that?"

"You shouldn't be here," Sam repeated.

The sun began to take on a strange color, a sharper yellow that shone unnaturally off of the nearby rock formations. Dean held his hand above his forehead, shading his eyes.

"Did you see where I put my sunglasses?" he asked.

"You shouldn't be here, Dean Winchester," Sam drawled in a painfully familiar voice that sent shivers down Dean's spine.

"Oh, fuck," Dean gasped as he turned to his right and saw the girl from the bar sitting next to him instead of his brother.

"You mustn't remember," she hissed and lunged across the seat at Dean.

Dean slammed on the brakes, sharply spinning the wheel, turning a complete 180 degrees as the car skidded to a halt, leaving black tire marks in an arc across the asphalt. And even before coming to a complete stop, he had his gun in his hand, pointing it firmly at the passenger seat, ready to shoot.

But now he was pointing the gun at empty air.

He killed the engine and nearly rolled out of the car, scuttling to his feet and frantically pointing his gun in every direction, but he was alone.

Dean was completely alone. Just Dean, Dean's car, and a desert so silent that for a moment, he thought he had gone deaf.

"Sam?" he whispered, relieved that he could actually hear himself.

But the next thing he heard seemed to suck the relief right out of his chest, spin it around, turn it inside out, paint it the color of fresh gore, and stick it painfully back inside of him.

The next thing he heard was the deep, rhythmic, deafening beat of tribal drums.

"I don't like it," he muttered incoherently, shaking his head and backing toward the Impala. "I don't like it. Turn it off."

The drums only got louder, rattling his skull and painfully piercing his ear drums. He tried to cover his ears with his hands, but it was no use. It was like the drums were inside of his head. "Turn it off!" he shrieked. "TURN IT OFF!"

And as though by the flick of a switch, the sunlight, the desert around him, the sound of the drums, even the beating of his own heart... turned off.

Nothingness remained.

* * *

Nothingness engulfed Sam for what could have been seconds or centuries. Slowly, slowly, the soothing darkness all around him gave way to a chafing heat around his wrists and a headache like nothing he had ever experienced before. He became aware of the sound of stone grinding against stone. He heard a girl speak softly.

"Don't try to—" she began.

Sam attempted to open his eyes and the pain in his skull was multiplied by a thousand.

"—open your eyes yet," the girl finished.

"Thanks," Sam croaked weakly, even the vibration of his own vocal cords sending shock waves of agony up and down his spinal column. "What did you do to me?" he whispered.

"Winchesters," the girl answered, drawing nearer, an unmistakable edge of distaste in her voice. "It's always somebody else's fault with you."

As the girl came closer, so did the sound of grinding stone, and with it, a stench of herbs so strong that it momentarily overpowered Sam's headache.

"You need to drink this," she said.

"No," he gagged.

"You've been poisoned, Sam. That headache is only going to get worse before it begins to travel through your whole body and eventually kill you. Drink."

Sam didn't want to trust her, but he literally couldn't open his eyes, and he could feel his extremities lighting up with the same internal fire that seemed to be consuming his brain. Realizing he didn't have a choice, he opened his mouth and felt a cool stone dish being pressed to his lips.

The concoction tasted even worse than it smelled, and it sent a sensation of flames from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, but only briefly. The pain was quickly followed by cooling relief and a sensation that every cell in his body was not only recovering, but improving.

"Aaah," he sighed involuntarily. He slowly opened his eyes. "You," he said disbelievingly.

"You shouldn't be here, Sam Winchester," the girl replied.

"I saw you in the bar," Sam accused, remembering the night that he and Dean were mysteriously separated before their first excursion into the desert.

"Here," she corrected. "You saw me _here_."

Sam looked around and his jaw dropped as he realized they were standing in the very same bar. He had his back to the wall with his arms spread wide, his wrists tightly bound in place by thick ropes that were tethered to the rafters above, his feet curled limply against the floor. As the strength returned to his legs, he stood up, releasing some of the painful tension on his wrists. He then immediately began to struggle, attempting to break free and failing pathetically.

"Magic ropes," the girl stated calmly. "But if you don't mind wasting your energy..."

"What did you do to my brother?" Sam demanded.

"Saved him. Why do you think he's not in hell?"

Sam licked his lips nervously, sensing the sincerity within this girl whom he wanted so much to distrust. "Then why have you separated us? _Again._ Why did you poison me?"

"I'm afraid that was my doing," came a man's husky voice from the shadows behind the bar.

"Why didn't you two just leave while you still could?" the girl muttered to Sam quietly.

"What?" Sam asked. "We had to come back. Dean had a..."

"A vision?" the man asked, revealing himself. He was a rotund Native American with long gray-streaked black hair pulled into a ponytail. He wore an expensive-looking business suit and a bolo tie held together by a large turquoise gem framed in shining silver. His white snake-skin cowboy boots clopped softly against the wood floor as he made his way over, dark eyes blazing at Sam.

"Why did you poison me?" Sam tried to sound unafraid, but this man clearly didn't like him.

"Isn't the real question why did we bother giving you the antidote?" the man answered. "We didn't have to, you know."

"Daddy..." the girl began unhappily.

"Quiet, girl," he cut her off.

Sam looked between them, their tense familial relationship so obvious, he wondered why he hadn't noticed it right away.

"You've got something of mine, and you're going to give it back."

"I've never met you before in my life," Sam argued, his annoyance sweeping in to give his fear a much needed rest.

"He doesn't have it anymore, Daddy," the girl nearly whispered. Sam couldn't help but notice how small she became in her father's presence. "I told you..."

"He passed it to his brother, yes," the man finished for her. "Yes, how could I possibly forget that?"

"Passed what?" Sam asked impatiently. "Who the hell are you?"

"'And unto only those who must for sake of Tribe survival share,'" the man began to recite.

"Oh, wait. Wait, wait, wait," Sam said anxiously, shaking his head against what he was hearing.

"'Shall be allowed one spell of lust, ere Night Bird raze the donor bare,'" the man finished, shaking his head as if he felt sorry for Sam. "You and your brother have been awfully bad, haven't you?"

Sam could feel the heat creeping up his cheeks, but he didn't look away.

"What my brother and I do is none of your goddamn business," he growled.

Sam glanced at the girl, becoming even more embarrassed at the realization that she must know all about him and Dean too. But she merely continued to look at the floor, clutching her stone mortar and pestle tightly against her abdomen. She looked wretchedly unhappy.

"True enough," the man agreed. "But what _is_ my business," he went on, stepping close enough that Sam could smell the musky tobacco on his breath, "is what passed from you to him because of your depraved activities. Whatyou _transferred_ to him."

Sam shut his mouth, total understanding dawning on him. "The visions," he said.

"They don't belong to you," the man said dangerously.

"I didn't ask for them."

"That can't be helped."

"I didn't know they would transfer," Sam added.

"But they _have_ transferred, and they've transferred to, of all people, a man damned to hell," the man's voice grew steadily louder with each word, his face growing red with fury. "Do you have any _idea_ how many of the ancient laws you've broken?"

"We haven't done anything wrong," Sam defended under his breath.

"In the First Days, a mere death sentence would have only been the _beginning _of the penalties visited upon you."

"I want to see my brother," Sam said.

"In good time," the man replied.

"Hey," Sam spouted forcefully at the girl. She peeked up at him through her lashes. "What's your name?"

"Don't speak to him, girl," her father commanded.

"You have to let me see my brother," Sam tried to reason with her. "You helped him, didn't you? Please let me see him."

The girl's face became emotional. She clearly wanted to help. But her father held too much sway.

"_Please,"_ Sam whispered. "Where is Dean?"

The girl didn't answer, but her eyes briefly darted to Sam's left. He looked in the same direction and only saw the empty wall.

"Just show him," the man waved his hand with a sigh. "Maybe then he'll begin to listen."

She looked up at her father reluctantly and then apologetically at Sam.

"Show me what?" he asked fearfully.

The girl raised her delicate hand to Sam's face and held it about an inch away from his eyes. A soft blue pulse of light emitted from her palm, and he felt the sensation of something pulling away from his eyeballs. He blinked several times once the girl removed her hand, and then he turned to his left again.

This time he saw Dean there, tied to the rafters just like Sam. Dean was unconscious and the weight of his body hung heavily by his bound wrists. Dark rivulets of dried blood ran down from his ears and nose.

"Dean?" Sam squeaked. "Is he dead?"

"Not yet," the man answered.

Sam's eyes widened in horror.

"Poisoned, like you," the man went on. "He'll receive the antidote once you and I understand each other."

Sam once again noticed the stone dish in the girl's hands and stared into her eyes desperately. "Please give it to him," he begged. She merely looked up at her father diminutively.

"Why is he bleeding?"

"He had an encounter with the Drums."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sam yelled. "Who are you?"

"SAMUEL WINCHESTER!" the man bellowed, his voice filling the entire building and sending more waves of pain through Sam's head. The lights flickered in their sockets and a cold wind blew through the bar, chilling Sam all the way down to his bones. The walls and ceiling became wavy and blurred, and for a moment, Sam thought he was actually seeing through them to the desert outside. But they quickly became solid again. "You and your brother have something that does not belong to you, and you _will _give it back."

"What, the visions?" Sam shouted, completely losing his cool. "I already told you, I don't even know how I ended up with them in the first place!"

"How did Dean end up with them?" the man asked.

"Transference," Sam parroted impatiently. "Fucking bodily fluids, okay? Sex, if you need me to spell it out. But I don't see how you think that's going to help you. Transference only works between family members."

"Tribe members," the man corrected.

"Well, we're not members of your goddamned tribe, so I guess you're shit out of luck."

"And it's only to be done for the sake of the Tribe's survival."

"Yeah, I read the stupid poem, thanks."

"Only in the case of the current Sight holder foreseeing his or her own coming death," the man continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Any other transference, intentional or not, is grounds for execution—"

"I'm terrified," Sam uttered sarcastically.

"—and eternal spiritual enslavement."

"What is that, the Tribe's version of hell?"

"Sam..." the girl warned quietly with a small shake of her head.

"You'll find out soon enough," the man answered with a leer. "But not until you give us back the Sight."

"Like we've already established," Sam said impatiently, "I don't have it anymore. I passed the visions to Dean, and unless you and he are somehow related, I don't see how you plan on reclaiming them."

The man's crooked smile grew, revealing a row of ancient yellowing teeth, and the petite girl at his side seemed to grow even smaller as she grasped her bowl tightly against her chest. Sam looked back and forth between them.

"I don't understand," he stated.

"All those lonely years on the road, chasing down evil, trying to avenge your mother's death," the man said. "Do you really think your father never sought the comfort of a woman's embrace?"

Sam still wasn't catching on, but he had a sick feeling in his gut. "You don't know anything about my father."

"_You_ don't know anything about your father," the man corrected. "Or his bastard daughter."

A small hiccup of a breath escaped the girl's throat and she quickly brushed a strand of hair away from her reddening face. Sam stared at her with his mouth hanging open, shaking his head. "No," he whispered.

"I'm your sister, Sam," the girl revealed with a quaking voice.

"No," Sam repeated shaking his head more adamantly. "No, you're not. This is ridiculous." He turned back to the man. "She's _your_ daughter."

"She should have been," the man nodded.

"Your father," the girl said to Sam, looking more humiliated by the minute, "_our_ father... had an affair with my mother."

"My late wife," the man added.

Sam didn't have to guess what must have happened to the the girl's poor mother. He instinctively began struggling against the ropes binding his wrists.

"Dean?" he pleaded urgently, panic beginning to constrict his throat. "Dean, you have to wake the _fuck up now!_"

"So you see the predicament you've gotten yourself into," the man spoke harshly, a heavy smoker's cough overtaking him, cutting off the end of his sentence. He stumbled backwards and pulled out a chair from a nearby table and sat down, hacking into his fist. Sam could see the girl's natural inclination to go to his side, to try to help him, but she fought her impulse and stayed still, staring at Sam with some combination of fear, embarrassment, and rage in her eyes. He stared back at her, wordlessly asking what she expected him to do about it when he was tied up and helpless.

When the man finally began to breathe normally again, he spoke in a muted voice.

"Dean must transfer the Sight back to our Tribe. To her," he gestured to Sam and Dean's new sister.

Sam shook his head, even chuckled quietly in total disbelief. "And you're on board with this?" he challenged the girl.

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but the man interrupted. "My daughter will do whatever is necessary to preserve the Tribe."

"She's not your daughter," Sam answered back, feeling a sudden surge of irrational protectiveness over this girl. Whoever she was, whatever she had done, she was family now. "You don't have to do this," he appealed to her. "Please tell me your name?"

"After all," the man said loudly, interrupting her again, "this is her mess to clean up."

"What is he talking about?" Sam asked his sister, fed up for the moment with the man's raspy voice.

She shook her head again, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Go on, little one," the man urged with a sickening gentleness. "Refresh the boy's memory."

She made her way closer to Sam and his heart began to pound. Whatever was coming next, he already knew it was no good. Once again, the girl raised her hand to just in front of his eyes, and the same blue light as before engulfed his vision. After a brief moment, the blue cleared away and he was thrust back in time, back into a memory that was so vivid and complete that he felt as if he were reliving it.

It was 2005. His body felt impossibly heavy with feelings of exhaustion, of drunkenness, and of the thick, suffocating weight of grief resting painfully on his chest. It was only weeks after his girlfriend, Jessica, had died on the ceiling over his bed, after she had caught fire right before his eyes, the look of terror and pain on her face forever seared into his retinas. And now he was in a dark and noisy bar with his brother Dean, hustling a game of pool, taking shot after shot of horrid off-brand whisky, and flirting with everything that moved. Anything to make the pain go away. Anything to stop the feeling of his heart being torn from his chest again and again.

And in a moment alone, when Dean was at the bar flirting with the young female bartender, Sam's eyes landed on the girl. The dark-haired girl sitting alone in the corner of the room, staring at him hotly, clear intention pouring through her gaze, her posture, her stillness. Sam never even asked her name.

He dropped his pool cue on the floor and crossed the bar. She stood up quickly and met him halfway, allowing him to grasp her upper arm a little too tightly and pull her outside. They were in the middle of nowhere on a warm autumn night, and it hadn't been difficult for them to find almost total darkness around the backside of the bar. Sam ripped her pants down to her ankles, then freed his already stiff cock, letting his jeans sag just above his knees as he pushed her back against the dirty brown siding.

"Give it to me," she begged in a lustful, breathy whisper.

"Shut up," Sam answered as he shoved himself into her.

"STOP!" Sam felt, rather than heard, himself scream, and immediately the vision cleared from his eyes as the girl, the very same girl from that night, his _sister_, stepped back from him, lowering her hand. Tears now stained her cheeks. Her non-father cleared his throat gravely.

"Is there still any question how you came upon the Sight?" he asked.

"I was drunk," Sam stuttered, staring at the girl guiltily. "My girlfriend had just..." his voice caught in his throat.

"You violated my little girl and you didn't even remember." The man's tone was deathly quiet.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

"Not your fault," she whispered back.

"And now you see how the situation is to be rectified," the man asserted. "She is Dean's sister too. It is up to him to make this right."

"I'm not asking Dean to do that," Sam refused as a thick black pit of possessiveness dropped into his stomach at the thought of Dean having sex with someone else. "This is sick and wrong, and it stops now."

"Any sicker than you and your brother willfully defiling each other for months?"

"_Shut your mouth_," Sam raged.

"You waste my time, Sam Winchester!" the man boomed, standing once more as the solidity of the room flickered and waved around him again. "Do you really think we're giving you a choice?"

"What are you going to do, kill me?" Sam challenged. "Do it, then. I'm not afraid of death."

"But you're afraid of Dean's death," the man accurately stated. "And you're even more afraid of his eternal damnation, which I am completely capable of reinstating at any time I wish."

"How?"

"Dean can't know that I saved him," the girl spoke up sadly. "If he remembers, everything I did will be undone. He'll die immediately, and he'll go straight to hell." _Why didn't you run? _her dark eyes asked him again.

Sam tried to swallow, but his mouth was suddenly painfully dry.

"Now, don't think that you both aren't going to die anyway," the man added with another vicious smirk. "The crimes you've committed against my Tribe are too great to be ignored. But it's up to you, boy, what happens to your brother's soul once it is evicted from his body."

A sweat broke across Sam's brow as he looked at his brother's unconscious body, Dean's chin resting awkwardly against his chest. He couldn't bear the thought of Dean giving his body to another person. Only _Sam _got to see that part of him now. Not to mention the total _impossibility _of talking Dean into sleeping with this girl. Dean would never agree to it in a million years unless he knew why it was necessary, and Sam couldn't tell him why without sending him to hell for the rest of eternity.

"How is this my fucking life?" Sam moaned to himself.

"We'll give you some time alone with him," the man said. "The two of you are nothing if not headstrong, and I realize you'd have a better chance of convincing him than I ever would."

"This is so fucking _fucked_," Sam breathed.

"But just in case Sam isn't convincing enough," the man said to the girl, "why don't you provide Dean with just a little more incentive to comply?"

"What the hell does that mean?" Sam asked.

"I'm sorry," the girl said as she put down her bowl and approached Sam a final time.

"Whatever it is, you don't have to do it," Sam babbled. "Please..."

The girl removed a lethally sharp knife from her belt. "I'm _really_ sorry," she repeated.

And Sam believed her. Even as she ripped open his shirt and began slicing off large chunks of his flesh, he really did believe that she was sorry to do it.

* * *

The taste of rotten earth was the first thing Dean was aware of. Then excruciating pain coursing through his body. Then a quick diminishing of the pain, eliciting a deep sigh of relief.

But his relief was short-lived when he realized his wrists were tied and he was back in the same damn bar he and Sam had visited their first night in Sedona. Where he and Sam had been separated.

"Sam!" he tried to shout but only succeeded in aggravating his dehydrated vocal cords. He choked himself silly until he had no air left, and when he finally calmed down, he heard a weak and trembling voice emanating from his right.

"Dean..." Sam breathed.

Dean craned his neck around to see Sam in much the same predicament. Hanging by his wrists, feet on the floor but legs too weak to hold him, the front of his shirt soaked in blood, and deep, open cuts all over his face and chest. Dean barely recognized him, and despite his own exhaustion, he began once more to fight against the impossible ropes.

"Sammy!" he croaked. "What did they do to you? Are you okay?" Dean's mind flashed back to the vision he'd been having again and again, Sam tied up, tortured, bleeding profusely. And he had brought them to this. He had walked right into the trap.

"Dean..."

"Who are they? Did you see them? Did you hear the drums?"

"Dean, listen to me."

"Hang on, I think I have a knife in my boot, if I can just..."

Dean began rubbing his feet together to try and slip his boot off of his foot.

"Dean, stop."

Sam had a small choking fit of his own, spitting up copious amounts of blood, and Dean stood helplessly by, desperate to do something but unable to move.

"There's a way out," Sam said breathlessly, only able to peer at Dean through his right eye as his left eye was completely swollen shut. "It sucks. But it's all we have."

"Sammy, what the hell happened here?"

* * *

Not many minutes later, Sam had explained everything. Mostly everything. How the visions had passed to him, then to Dean, and how Dean now had to pass them back to the girl. First Dean's eyes widened, then his jaw dropped, and then he was rolling his eyes repeatedly, completely in denial.

"Oh. Bull. _Shit,_" he drawled with exaggerated slowness. "So Dad supposedly slept with some random Indian chick, and now we have a surprise half sister who's apparently hot for _both_ of us?"

"Dean—"

"No. Abso-fucking-lutely not. I'm not touching that girl with a 10-foot pole. Even if she _is_ my sister." He thought about it a moment, then shook his head. "No, I mean _especially_ if she's my sister! Which she's not! They're lying to you, Sammy. There's something bigger going on here than some misplaced psychic property."

There _was_ something bigger going on, Dean was right. And it was the matter of his soul and and why it was still in his body. And Sam knew it, and he knew he sounded ridiculous trying to convince Dean without telling him the whole truth, and the whole truth was the most dangerous part of all.

"I really don't think they're making it up," Sam insisted. "She couldn't have transferred the visions to me if we weren't related, right? The poem said so."

"You still going on about that dumb rhyme?" Dean snorted. "These people could have planted that for you to find it, Sam. For all we know, the visions transfer through night farts. Christ knows you've given me plenty of opportunity to catch it that way."

"Dean, this is fucking serious!" Sam yelled, causing himself a great deal of pain. But he couldn't help it. Leave it to Dean to piss him off even in the most dire of situations.

"And really, if family fun is how this thing actually spreads, how come I haven't just given it right back to you?" Dean demanded. "What makes them think it'll hop over to her so easily?"

Sam shook his head. "They said something about completing the circuit or not being able to give it back to the person you received it from or—"

"It ain't gonna happen, and that's all there is to it," Dean blared, not having another word of Sam's tenuous explanation. "If she's actually the girl you had sex with after Jess died, and probably even _that_ isn't true, then it only means this _Tribe_," Dean punctuated the word with air quotes and a nasty sneer, "has been after us longer than we realized. Maybe for the visions and maybe for something else. But either way, if you think the Lone Ranger is going anywhere near that girl, you're even dumber than you sound."

"The Lone Ranger?" Sam asked.

"My dick, Sam. My dick."

"Oh, for the love of God," Sam rolled his eyes, causing even more pain to his injured face.

"I'm getting my knife and cutting us loose. I've had it with this adventure."

"Magic ropes," Sam stated wearily.

"Fuck!"

Dean stomped his foot and sighed angrily. A moment of uncomfortable silence slithered through the room before Dean sighed again, refusing to look at his brother.

"What did they do to you?" he asked gruffly.

"They thought if I looked like I was tortured, you'd be more willing to go along with this."

"They obviously don't know me very well," Dean responded.

"That's what I tried to tell them," Sam agreed.

"So then what do they have on you?" Dean asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem pretty willing to let me sleep with that girl."

Now Sam refused to look at Dean, as Dean stared over at him intently. "What aren't you telling me?" Dean probed.

"Nothing," Sam lied quickly. "This is just the only way."

"I reiterate," Dean said. "Bull shit."

"They're serious, Dean. I think they could really hurt us." God, he sounded so lame. But what else could he say?

"And what could possibly be worse than what we've already been through, Sammy? I escaped hell, right? What could be worse than that?"

Sam's lip twitched involuntarily, and he immediately cursed himself for not having more control. Dean stopped breathing for several seconds, then spoke quietly.

"They had something to do with that, didn't they?" he asked.

"No," Sam said, again too quickly.

"Sammy, tell me what is going on. Tell me right now."

"Nothing's going on, Dean."

Dean took a deep breath.

"Sam Winchester, I am your big brother—"

"I'm just worried that they're not going to let us go—"

"—and I'm in charge when Dad's not around—"

"—Dean, when they come back—"

"—and that means you have to do whatever I say—"

"—Dean, we're not kids anymore, you can't just pull older brother rank on me—"

"—now tell me what the fuck—"

"I'm trying to save you, Dean!"

"—is fucking going on!"

"Okay fine! Fucking fine, you want to know what's going on?" Sam screamed, totally out of control. "You want to know why I'm standing here bleeding to death? You want to know how far I'm willing to go for you?"

"Bring it," Dean said coldly.

"You want to know why I'm agreeing to their disgusting fucking plan?"

"Absolutely."

"You want to know how much goddamn _trouble_ you're in, Dean Winchester?"

"Unequivocally, yes."

"Fine!" Sam spat another glob of dark blood onto the floor and turned a furious stare at Dean, his anger, annoyance, and total exhaustion annihilating any ounce of good judgment he had left. "If you don't transfer the visions back to the Tribe, they're going to tell you that the only reason you're not in hell is—"

"SAM!"

Both Dean and Sam's heads whipped in the direction of the door and they gasped loudly.

"Bobby?" Dean whispered.

"Samuel Winchester," Bobby said sternly, his gun pointed at the space right between Sam's eyes. "I suggest you keep your big mouth shut."


	13. Splatter Effect

A/N: Another chapter! I told you I wouldn't make you wait long! :D

Spoilers: General stuff up to the end of season 3.

* * *

"Bobby! How did you find us?"

Bobby acknowledged Dean's question but never took his eyes, or his gun, off of Sam's face. "Sam here dropped enough hints the last time we spoke that I was able to figure it out. There are enough energetic hot spots in this area, it wasn't too hard to narrow it down."

Sam stared back at Bobby, still out of breath, but silent. Dean watched a strange and wordless exchange occur between his brother and Bobby. First Bobby looked stern and angry, then Sam looked guilty, then Sam nodded his head so slightly that Dean thought he might have imagined it.

And then Bobby lowered his gun and began to approach.

"Let's get you two _idjits_ the hell out of here," he grumbled.

"Magic ropes," the boys said in unison.

Bobby quickly plucked a brown leather pouch from his belt and tossed its black, powdery contents at the boys. The powder crackled and popped right in front of their faces, causing both of them to jump.

"Jesus, Bobby, a little warning next time!" Dean complained. Then he sneezed as the powdery residue trickled down onto his nose. "Perfect," he muttered.

But whatever had just happened, it worked. Bobby easily cut through Dean's ropes, freeing him at last. The blood ran quickly and painfully back into his arms and fingers, the sensation of pins and needles nearly overwhelming him. He groaned and cursed loudly.

Bobby cut Sam's ropes next, and Sam immediately flopped into Bobby's arms, weak from all of his blood loss.

"Can you carry him?" Bobby asked.

"Not yet," Dean said, frantically trying to shake his arms back to life.

"Come on, Sam," Bobby urged, hitching Sam onto his back, wrapping the boy's arms around his neck. "Try to hold on, okay?"

"Mm," Sam grunted affirmatively. He was looking worse by the minute.

They hobbled their way over to the door, and a chill went up Dean's spine as the familiar flickering and wavering of the bar around them alerted him to the presence of the enemy.

"Bobby," he warned, putting a hand on Bobby's shoulder as they stopped just inside the closed double doors.

To Dean's surprise, rather than opening, the doors simply vanished, revealing a dark-haired girl he was sure he'd never seen before, but whom he couldn't help staring at. Wait, he _had _seen her. She was the girl who had graced his most recent vision of the desert only a day ago.

The girl he _knew_ he had seen elsewhere too, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where. All he knew for sure was that she must be the new sister he'd heard so much about.

"Well, if it isn't the town whore," he said nastily.

"Dean," Sam uttered. Even half conscious, he carried off his irritated vocal inflection perfectly.

"You two should have run a long time ago," the girl fired back.

"Says the girl with my brother's blood on her hands," Dean accused. "You send us to the desert with your damn vision and then drag us back to town and this damn bar."

"We're not in town, Dean," Bobby offered.

"The Middle Man exists wherever we need him to," the girl added.

"The Middle Man?"

The girl pointed to the neon sign next to the door. The Middle Man was the name of the bar. Dean shook his head, wincing at the tension headache already growing behind his eyes.

"Whatever," he raised his hands in surrender. "Listen up, sweetie, it's up to you now. Let us go or get ready for a new lesson in pain. I don't care of you _are_ my sister."

"What?" Bobby exclaimed.

"Bobby, not now," Sam whispered.

"I'm letting you go," the girl said.

"Just like that?" Dean asked doubtfully.

"I never wanted any of this," she insisted, impatience cracking her calm exterior. "Do you actually think I was looking forward to having sex with you?"

"Well... _yeah_," Dean muttered somewhat pridefully.

"Now hang on just a—" Bobby began again.

"Not now!" Dean and the girl both shouted at once in identical tones of brash annoyance.

Then their eyes met with recognition. He cracked a smile in spite of himself.

"Sis," he said quietly.

"Yeah," she nodded, smiling back.

"Somebody better explain to me what the hell is going on here," Bobby said, readjusting Sam's heavy weight on his back.

"No time," the girl said, frightened but obviously exhilarated. "My father... I mean my step-father is unconscious, but not for long. I drugged his pipe."

"Good work," Dean mused.

"Sister..." Bobby mumbled thoughtfully.

"You have to go _now_," the girl urged.

"Transference," Bobby began to catch on, staring at Dean. "She transferred the visions to you?"

"She transferred the visions to Sam," Dean corrected, averting his eyes.

"Well, then how did you end up with... _Oh_," Bobby breathed deeply, staring at the floor.

"Guys," Sam's voice was frighteningly small. Bobby's jacket was already soaked with Sam's blood.

"Right," Dean said, grateful for an excuse to ditch the subject. "We gotta jet."

In the distance, a faint, rhythmic pounding of drums began to ring out through the emptiness of the night.

"Shit," Dean added, raising his fingers to the dried blood below his ears. "We _really_ gotta jet. Now."

The girl stepped out of their way, and shockingly, the entire bar glimmered and flashed and then disappeared altogether, leaving them in the darkness of the desert. The crescent moon shone down brilliantly along with billions of twinkling stars.

"Go," the girl commanded. "I'm really sorry for my part in this."

Dean shook his head. "Why do I feel like I have more to thank you for than letting us go?"

The girl's mouth tightened. She clearly wanted to say more but didn't allow herself to. "Go," she repeated.

"At least tell me your name?" Dean asked, flinching as the pounding of the drums moved in closer, seemingly from every direction.

The girl looked around nervously, then pulled Dean close and whispered something soft and lovely into his ear. Then she kissed his cheek. "I always wanted a brother," she said, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. And then she ran.

"Come on, Dean," Bobby said. "Sam's not doing well."

Bobby took off in the other direction, and with a last look at the girl's retreating figure, Dean jogged after Bobby. Soon, they came upon Bobby's car, and the feeling in Dean's arms had returned.

"I'll take him," he said, and he dragged Sam into the backseat, resting Sam's head on his lap as Bobby fired up the engine and peeled out in the direction of the road.

* * *

"Bobby, he's bleeding out!"

Bobby fished through his glove box, pulling out a first aid kit and tossing it into the backseat, never taking his eyes off the road. They flew through the darkness at breakneck speed, but no matter how fast they went, the sound of the drums kept getting louder and louder.

Dean ripped open the kit, quickly perusing the familiar items. Gauze, tape, bandages, rubbing alcohol, needles, string, and appropriately, a flask. He unscrewed the cap and held it to Sam's mouth. "You're gonna need this, kiddo," he said gravely.

Sam opened his mouth and took several large swallows, choking on the dark liquid, but keeping it down. Then Dean took out a curved needle and threaded it with string. He rested the needle between his lips while he took out the rubbing alcohol and pulled Sam's blood-soaked shirt away from his wounded chest. He doused the ragged skin with the alcohol, and Sam cried out in pain.

"I got you, baby, I got you. It's okay," Dean said, instinctively planting a gentle kiss on Sam's lips before he could stop himself. He glanced at the rear view mirror, and his stomach sank as he saw Bobby's eyes peeking back at him uncomfortably. But there wasn't time to worry about that now. "Drink more, Sam."

Sam had just enough strength to hold the flask to his lips and nurse more booze as Dean began stitching up his wounds, one by one. Sam moaned and gasped through the entire process, but he took it bravely, and Dean soothed him all along the way with gentle, loving words that he hoped would be drowned out of Bobby's earshot by the ever-expanding din of the tribal drums.

"There," Dean said, far from satisfied with his work. "All done."

"How is he?" Bobby shouted back.

"Unconscious, but okay, I think. I'm worried about all this blood, Bobby."

"She always wanted a brother, huh?" Bobby shook his head with a grimace. "She's got a funny idea of family loyalty, cutting Sam up to high heaven like that."

"I really don't think she had a choice," Dean answered.

"All I know is I'll feel better when we get back into town," Bobby responded. "And get Sam to a hospital."

"Easy enough," Dean said.

A sharp buzzing sound zoomed toward them and a yellow blur flew in front of the windshield.

"What the hell was that?" Dean cried.

There was another buzz, and this time the right front tire blew out with a deafening pop, sending the car skidding and swerving. Dean held onto Sam tightly as Bobby pounded on the brakes and turned the car in a tight 180 degree turn, bringing them to a bumpy halt.

"Fucking hell, Bobby!" Dean shouted.

"I think that was an arrow!"

"A what?"

Bobby grabbed his gun and got out of the car, staying low to avoid further attacks. He crawled around to the passenger side to see that, indeed, a long, thick yellow arrow with black feathers at its end was sticking out of the flattened tire.

"What in God's name?"

He heard a sharp pinging sound in the distance, much like the releasing of a taut bowstring, and another arrow buzzed toward him, striking the passenger side door and actually penetrating the metal, planting itself deeply into the side of the car.

"Dean! Magic arrows!"

"_What?_" Dean crowed from inside the car.

Bobby opened the back door and began tugging at Sam's shoulders. "The damn thing pierced the side of my car!"

"So, what, we're just gonna hoof it?" Dean asked frantically. "We'll be sitting ducks out here!"

"Dean, if these arrows can penetrate metal, I got a feeling the car won't be much safer."

And as if to prove his point, the next oversized arrow that flew in their direction was literally on fire. It easily penetrated the back end of the car, just next to the mouth of the gas tank. The shot was so neat, the archer could have been standing five feet away, but it was too dark to see anyone nearby.

"Where the hell are they shooting from?" Dean shouted.

"Who gives a shit? The car's gonna blow!"

Bobby hooked his hands under Sam's armpits and yanked roughly as Dean supported Sam's lower half on the way out of the car. Sam woke up with a gasp and then a cry of pain.

"I'm sorry, Sammy!" Dean shouted. He could barely hear himself over the drums. "We're kind of under attack here! I'm gonna need to throw you over my shoulder, okay?"

"No, Dean, I can stand!"

"Well, whatever you're doing, do it now!" Bobby shrieked.

Sam stood on the asphalt shakily, hanging his arms and most of his weight over Dean and Bobby's shoulders. They hobbled away from the car awkwardly, Sam continually tripping over his own feet, but they managed to keep going.

Seconds later, they heard a sharp hissing sound coming from the car behind them.

"Get down, now!" Bobby yelled.

But before they could do anything, the gas tank exploded, flipping up the back end of the car and lighting up the night with an orange and yellow ball of flame like a miniature sun. The heat of the blast hit Dean's back so hard, he actually thought for a moment that he had caught fire.

All three men were sent face first to the ground, Bobby tumbling away to the right, and Dean reflexively wrapping his whole body around Sam to pad his fall. Dean fell hard on his back, his skull knocking the pavement with a crack, and Sam landed on top of him, face planting against Dean's chest.

For a moment, the sound of the drums, the heat from the explosion, and even the feel of Sam on top of him was replaced by the pain in Dean's head. The stars and moon above appeared to be red and doubled and spinning, and he blinked his eyes furiously, trying to clear his vision. He could feel Sam shaking him by the shoulders, but he couldn't respond.

Finally his hearing began to come back, and he saw Sam staring down at him, his face darkly silhouetted by the roaring flames beyond.

"Dean, please! Please be okay!" Sam sobbed. "Please get up!"

"I'm okay," Dean whispered. He couldn't hear himself at all over the drums, and he knew Sam couldn't either, but Sam at least appeared relieved at Dean's ability to speak at all. "Where's Bobby?" Dean mouthed silently.

Sam looked all around and shook his head. "I thought he fell over there, but I don't see him. Bobby!"

"Bobby..." Dean attempted to yell and couldn't.

"Bobby, where are you?"

A bright white light suddenly shone on Sam's stitched-up face, illuminating his features brilliantly, and he scrunched his eyes shut in surprise.

"What is that?" Dean rasped. He felt a deep vibration in the ground like a revving engine. He tried to roll over and get Sam out of harm's way, but the light was approaching too quickly. Then he heard a familiar car horn honking, as the source of the light, his own Impala, screeched to a stop right next to the boys. They heard Bobby holler from inside.

"Get in!"

Sam pushed himself painfully to his feet and ripped open the passenger door, dragging Dean over to the car. "Dean, you have to stand up!"

"I'm trying!" Dean growled, relieved that at least some of his strength was returning.

Another arrow flew past his head as he got up, its black feather slicing a small line like a paper cut across his ear lobe. "Ah, God!"

He held his ear and ducked his head just in time for Sam to yank him into the car. He landed in Sam's lap in the passenger seat and Bobby slammed his foot on the gas even as Dean was pulling the door shut. They sped in the direction of town, Bobby swerving this way and that along the deserted road as more arrows zoomed at the car.

"How are they keeping up with us?" Dean asked. "There must be thousands of them out there! And how did you start my car?"

"I have a spare key, you dumb shit!" Bobby shouted back.

Before Dean could express his indignation about that, blinding car headlights flooded in through the rear window, and this time instead of the buzz of arrows, they heard the unmistakable blast of a gunshot. All three men ducked instinctively, but the bullet didn't connect.

"Oh, _hell_ no!" Dean screamed. "If they so much as _nick_ my baby..."

He opened the glove box and pulled out his spare handgun, quickly checking the magazine and safety as Sam rolled down the passenger window without even needing to be asked.

Dean leaned far out the window and expertly aimed the gun below and just to the side of one of the headlights of the oncoming vehicle. He closed one eye for focus and waited until he felt that familiar sensation of heightened awareness, that feeling of his consciousness flowing into his hand, of everything becoming totally still for only a moment.

Then he fired.

He smiled vengefully at the sound of a tire bursting, and the car trailing them careened left and right before swerving entirely off the road. Dean settled back into Sam's lap, squeezing his brother's thigh roughly as adrenaline pumped through his veins.

"Damn right," Dean said with a satisfied nod.

But his satisfaction was short-lived as they heard three more bullets firing off.

"The hell?" Sam shouted.

They craned their necks to look back again, and now there were _three_ sets of headlights chasing them, three cars all abreast, high beams blazing, and gaining on them.

"Who _are_ these people?" Dean cried, preparing to lean out the window again.

But before he got the chance, they heard another pluck, followed by an arrow's buzz coming from their right. This one actually flew in through Dean's window, raced just past his and Bobby's noses and crashed through the glass of the driver's side window as though it were cellophane.

"Magic fucking arrows," Dean muttered, sticking his gun out the window and aiming it into the night. "You're gonna pay for that window, fuck ass!"

He fired off several rounds before Bobby slapped him in the back of the head.

"You're wasting your damn bullets, kid, we don't even know where they're shooting from!"

"Fuck ass?" Sam asked, unable to hide a smirk.

"Shut up, Sam!" Dean countered. "Aaaah!"

Dean's arms and legs became stiff as a searing pain shot through his head and his vision went white. He could feel his limbs convulsing against Sam's body as several blurry images flashed through his mind. The plateau, the bar they had just left, the girl who he just found out was his sister holding her hand out with something blue hovering just above it. Was that a planet?

When he came out of his vision, he felt Sam's arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. "Dean, you okay?"

"That girl!" Dean yelled back. "I know her from somewhere!"

Bobby and Sam were uncharacteristically silent for a moment, then Sam said, "Bobby, we have to get the hell out of here! Something about the desert is making him remember!"

"Sam, I'm doing the best I can!" Bobby shot back.

"Remember what?" Dean demanded. "What are you guys talking about?"

"Bobby, now!"

"Aaah!"

Dean was thrown back against Sam again with another skull-crushing vision. When he came back to his senses, he rubbed his forehead and then squinted out through the windshield. "The road out of hell..." he said. "That's what she said to me. What does that mean?"

"Ah, beans," Bobby shook his head with exasperation. "You boys hold on tight, you hear?"

Sam wrapped his arms even more tightly around Dean, and Bobby made a vicious left turn. The car hit the edge of the road and was momentarily airborne, before unceremoniously thumping back down into the dirt, and the ride only got worse from there.

Between the bumping of the tires over the uneven ground, and the endless pounding of the tribal drums, the boys now had to scream just to be heard.

"Bobby, what are you doing?" Dean bellowed.

"Shortcut!" Bobby yelled back. He uttered several more words that Dean couldn't hear, then, "...vortex!"

"Huh?"

Bobby kept one hand on the wheel as he pulled another pouch from his belt. He appeared to be muttering an incantation under his breath as he held the pouch out the window, massaging it in his hand.

"Hold on!"

And he slammed on the brakes, swirling the car to a stop that kicked up at least a six-foot wall of dust and dirt. Then he slammed the pouch down to the ground, causing a thunderous pop and a flash of white light that swallowed the car whole.

* * *

The next thing Sam knew, he was rolling over the ground, over sharp rocks poking and scratching at his skin, popping several of the stitches Dean had haphazardly set in place. When he finally came to rest, face down on the rocks, he attempted to catch his breath, the pounding of his heart forcefully pumping blood through the tiny vessels in his eyes. When the ringing in his ears quieted, he realized that, thankfully, at least the drums had stopped.

He couldn't take much more of this. When Bobby's car exploded, and Dean had been thrown to the ground, Sam's adrenaline had kicked into high gear and sustained him until now. But he was fading. He had lost entirely too much blood, and he felt a sickening weakness falling over him. His face was drenched in cold sweat.

Somehow he found the energy to roll over and push himself up onto his knees.

"Dean?" he called.

Sam realized that he was back in the park where he and Dean had spent what they thought would be their last night together. The night that Dean's deal was up and he was scheduled to be sent to hell. And now, finally, Sam knew why things had gone differently. And his heart sped up considerably with the understanding that unless they did something about those damn visions, Dean was going to remember everything too, and it would have all been for nothing.

"Dean!" he called again.

"Sam!" It was Bobby.

Sam stumbled to his feet, shielding his eyes against the headlights of the Impala which sat in the middle of the park, engine idling benignly. Bobby hobbled toward Sam, one leg clearly weakened, and he was dabbing a bloody cut above his left eye.

"Bobby, what the _hell_ was that?"

"I had to use one of the desert vortexes to transport us out of there," Bobby explained, grabbing Sam's shoulders and examining his reopened wounds. "The energy of those things is completely unstable."

"Hence the splatter effect," Sam deduced.

"Could've been worse," Bobby added.

"God help us."

"Sammy?" Dean's voice crowed weakly from behind the car.

"Dean!" Sam replied, instinctively moving in Dean's direction.

"Sam, wait," Bobby grabbed Sam's arm and held him back. "We have to talk about what's going on here."

"Bobby, I know you don't approve of me and Dean, okay? But we don't have time to talk about that right now."

"I'm not talking about... _that_," Bobby answered with an unmistakable grimace. "Believe you me, kid, you'll know when I'm ready to talk about _that_."

"Bobby..."

"I'm talking about the visions. You said something about the desert making Dean remember why he's not in hell."

"You said yourself that the energy vortexes aren't stable. They must have been triggering his memory or something. But we're out of the desert now, so it should be fine."

"Or maybe it has nothing to do with the vortexes at all," Bobby disagreed. "Maybe the visions are just doing what they've always done. Alerting you two to a supernatural occurrence that needs to be dealt with."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked.

"Sammy, where are you?" Dean pleaded.

"I'm talking about the magnitude of what had to happen to get Dean out of his deal," Bobby continued. "Wherever the visions come from, whatever they are, don't you think something as big as a broken deal with the devil is of enough importance that whoever holds the sight would be notified?"

Sam sighed heavily. He hadn't wanted to go there. But he knew Bobby was right. It was more than likely that no matter where they went, the visions would keep coming until Dean's memory was fully restored, and when that happened...

"How did you even know about all of this?" Sam implored in a harsh whisper. "How do you know what that girl did to get Dean out of his deal?"

"You really think I'd walk into a shit storm like this without doing my research first? I read about the man who came here years ago to get out of his own deal. And I know it didn't end well for him."

Sam nodded. He should have guessed.

"And don't think," Bobby went on, "that I don't know what I walked in on back at the bar. You and your stupid temper were about to send your brother right back to hell in a handbasket."

"He just makes me so _mad_ sometimes," Sam tightened his jaw.

"Well, you're gonna want to get control of that right quick," Bobby admonished. "'Cause the rest of your life is exactly how long you're going to have to keep this secret. The _rest of your life_, Sam."

Sam had never thought of it that way. The idea of lying to Dean for the rest of... well, forever, made his throat close up. But what scared him even more was how well he knew himself. How well he knew that no matter how hard he tried to stay in control, his emotions around Dean were so volatile so often, that another fight could easily evoke another eruption of truth from him, and the next time, Bobby might not be there to stop it.

"Sam..." Dean's voice was ragged and breathless, and with a last helpless look at Bobby, Sam ran to his brother's side.

He found him face down on the ground, a pool of dark blood collecting on the rocks under his nose.

"How's it going?" Sam asked gently, kneeling down next to him.

"Oh, swell," Dean answered in a nasally voice. "My nose is broken and I can't feel my right arm, but other than that, it's shaping up to be a great day."

Sam chuckled quietly, pulling a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and guiding Dean to hold it to his nose. "Do you think you can stand?"

"One way to find out."

Bobby came over and helped Sam get Dean to his feet. Both Dean and Sam nearly stumbled and fell during the process.

"Sam, your color is awful," Dean said through the handkerchief, touching Sam's pale face.

"Right back at ya, bro," Sam answered.

"We have to get you both to a hospital," Bobby said. "I don't want you dying of blood loss before I get the chance to kill you myself."

"Easy, Bobby," Dean grunted. "I've already escaped death once this week. You really going to sentence me again so soon?"

Another solemn look passed between Sam and Bobby. Dean's hand dropped from his face to his side, his fist tightening around the bloody handkerchief furiously.

"What the fuck are you two not telling me?"

When neither of them could answer, Dean became irate. He snapped himself out of Sam's protective embrace and began limping out of the park toward the sparse lights of the tiny city.

"Dean, you can't just leave," Sam yelled after him.

"If you don't think you can trust me with whatever is really going on here," Dean raged without turning back, "then I have no reason to stick around. Good luck with the Tribe."

"Dean, where the hell are you gonna go?" Bobby shouted.

"I'm going to talk to my new sister!" Dean shouted back. "She's obviously a nut job, but at least she's honest!"

"You don't even know where she is!" Sam cried.

"Doesn't matter!" Dean turned around with an angry grin. "She told me how to get a hold of her any time I want."

"Dean, don't!" Bobby and Sam yelled in unison, both of them sensing where this would lead.

"MIAKODA!" Dean shrieked into the night sky, directly at the shining sliver of moon, and another blast of white light enveloped the park and the surrounding landscape as a vortex opened up, depositing the girl right next to the car and sending all three men to the ground once more.

"Dean?" she asked, startled, and before the she had even finished the word, the drums resumed their pounding, distant now but coming closer. "Oh, Dean," she repeated tiredly, putting her hands in her face.

"You said I could call on you," Dean groaned, holding his head after his latest fall.

"I didn't mean _right now_!"

"Well, this is just superb," Bobby growled, standing up one more time and dusting himself off. "We had a head start on the Tribe, and now you've led them right back to us."

"I didn't know!" Dean argued. "I didn't call on the Tribe, I called on her!"

"They always know where I am," the girl responded quietly.

"Fuck!" Dean blurted. Then, "FUUUUCK!" he shrieked again as his body began to spasm with the arrival of another vision.

"Goddamn it!" Sam shouted, crawling to Dean's side and holding him tightly to prevent him from injuring himself further.

"What's happening to him?" the girl asked, rushing toward them.

"He's remembering what you did to him!" Sam spat. "The visions are bringing it all back!"

"I was afraid of this," she admitted.

"So what do we do?" Sam demanded.

"There's nothing we _can_ do! You can't stop the Sight from performing its errand, Sam. Its sole purpose is to alert us to disturbances in the natural order of things, and I'm sorry, but what I did for your brother doesn't fit into the construct of the New Faith."

"What the hell does that mean?" Sam asked.

"I explained it all to Dean, but it was necessary for him to forget."

"Well, give it a minute," Sam said sarcastically. "I'm sure he'll be able to fill us in shortly."

"I'm sorry, Sam, I really, really wanted to help you two. You have to believe me."

"So help us!" Sam cried, as Dean's trembling finally began to slow. He put his hand over Dean's heart, making sure that whatever the vision had just revealed, it wasn't enough to take his brother from him. "There has to be something you can do."

"I've done everything I can!" she insisted.

"Not quite," Bobby interrupted.

"So what, we just let him die?" Sam asked, not even hearing Bobby. "After everything we've been through, we just give up?"

"No, we don't," Bobby said thoughtfully, almost to himself.

"Mia," Dean whispered, his eyes open just wide enough to see his sister. He was dazed and not yet fully conscious, but he smiled softly. "You showed me my Sammy," he said with a widening grin. "He was just a baby."

The girl's face fell, and Sam grabbed her arm urgently.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

She shook her head gravely. "It means we're out of time. If he can remember that much, then the next vision will surely be the last."

"Dean," Sam begged, holding Dean's forehead to his cheek. "How many times do I have to lose you?"

"I'm so sorry, Sam," the girl said.

"Sammy?" Dean breathed, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as he began to quake with another vision.

"Not on my watch, you don't," Bobby said, and pulled a last pouch from his belt, emptying its contents into his hand. He knelt down and pulled Dean's mouth open, stuffing it full of crushed herbs. Dean began to choke and sputter, then almost immediately fell completely still, eyes tightly closed.

In the stillness that Dean's episode left behind, the drums approached louder and louder.

"You two, help me get him in the car," Bobby ordered.

"What did you do to him?" Sam asked nervously.

"I poisoned him, Sam, now shut up and help me. We have to get out of here before the arrows start flying again."


	14. Sam and Dean and Mia

A/N: Hey, all. So as you might have noticed, real life has a funny (but not) tendency of getting in the way of my writing. But just so that we're clear, this story _will_ be finished. I have no intention of abandoning it. I'm going to try for more frequent updates (notice I said "try" ;)), but even if there is another dry spell, please know that no matter what, I will see this thing through to the end. It's you, me, and the boys against the world now. :) Enjoy the latest chapter and Happy Holidays!

This one takes place where the last one left off, so flip back and refresh your memory if you so wish.

Spoilers: Up to and including season 3.

* * *

"The Tribe possesses some of the oldest magic in existence. Your provisions will not keep them out for long."

Bobby rolled his eyes at the girl as he finished his salt circle around the perimeter of the motel room.

"Listen... Miakoda, is it?" he asked.

"You may call me Mia," she answered from her spot at the edge of the far bed. Behind her, Dean lay unconscious, and in front of her, Sam sat against the headboard of the other bed. He was drinking an elixir out of a tiny bottle and the wounds all over his body were healing right before his eyes. He was feeling better and better with every swallow.

"Well, whatever," Bobby shrugged. "If we're so short on time, why don't you quit running your mouth and help us out of this mess."

"She is helping," Sam answered, pleased to find the strength and volume returning to his voice. He breathed deeply as almost all of his physical pain disappeared. "What is this stuff?"

"A mineral compound derived from the metal of the knife I used to cut you," Mia answered. "With a little magic added in, of course."

"Cool," Sam said thoughtfully.

"Cool?" Bobby repeated, shaking his head. "Cool? Really?!" He chucked the salt canister at the wall furiously and adjusted his ever present baseball cap, glaring at Sam and Mia.

"Bobby..."

"What exactly is so cool about the fact that this lunatic almost let you bleed to death, Sam?"

"She had to do it, Bobby. It was the only way she could get us out of there," Sam replied.

"Well, you're a hell of a lot more trusting than I am, I guess," Bobby shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned this whole damn thing got started because of her." He turned his angry stare on Mia. "You knew _exactly_ who Sam was when you lured him out of that bar, didn't you. Transferring the visions was no accident."

"Bobby, that's ridiculous," Sam scoffed.

"Yes," Mia answered simply. "Yes, I knew who Sam was."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "You did this to us on purpose?"

"No," she said. "I mean... Yes, I knew who you were and I knew that I was giving you the Sight. But I had no idea what I was setting into motion. I wasn't much more than a girl then. Rebellious and angry, and I would have done anything to break away from my father and the Tribe. I swear, I had no idea how bad I made things for you. And I've been doing everything in my power since to make it right."

"All I can see is that things keep getting worse," Bobby spat. "We've just barely pulled Sam back from the brink of death, and Dean is over there with a gut full of poison as we speak!"

"He'll be fine if you let me give him the antidote," Mia argued.

"So that he can have his final vision and jump on the express train to hell?" Bobby asked. "I think not."

"So then what, Bobby?" Sam asked. "I get that you poisoned him to stop him from having any more visions, but all you've done is prolong the inevitable. What are we going to do?"

Bobby folded his arms uncomfortably and stared at the floor for a long moment.

"There's only one thing we _can_ do," he finally muttered. "Sam, Dean has to give the visions back to Mia."

Sam shrugged, not quite catching on. "But he can't do that unless... No. No, Bobby. No way in hell that's going to happen."

"Sam," Mia began.

"I'm not enjoying this anymore than you are, Sam, believe me," Bobby agreed. "But I don't see any other way."

"You think I'm just going to let Dean sleep with..."

Sam stood up and walked around to the edge of Dean's bed, pushing Mia out of the way a bit more roughly than he meant to. "No," he repeated quietly, taking Dean's limp hand and holding it against his cheek. "He's mine," he added under his breath. Bobby cleared his throat, beginning to pace the room uncomfortably.

"I'm afraid Bobby's right, Sam," Mia said. "There is no other way."

Sam reached out and touched Dean's pale face, running his fingertips over the stubble, the full lips, the strong jaw line that he had kissed and licked and loved so many times. He felt like a petulant child reacting this way. If Dean having sex with Mia would rid him of the visions and keep him here at Sam's side, then Sam should just get over it and let it happen. _Anything_ would be better than losing Dean forever. But this... Why did it have to be _this?_

He thought about all of the intimate moments he and Dean had shared over the last months, all the times they had laughed and cried together, been naked and passionate together, had kissed and sucked and come together. All the times that Dean had stared so deeply into Sam's eyes that Sam could hardly breathe, that powerful, possessive stare that Dean had only ever used on Sam, that stare that spoke of undying devotion, a promise to Sam that he and his brother would belong only to each other from now on.

And for just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine Dean sharing that passion with Mia, and bile rose up his throat as jealousy tied his stomach in knots. Unable to control himself, Sam began to cry, holding Dean's hand even more tightly.

Mia sat down next to him and put a soft hand on his back, rubbing up and down cautiously. "I've seen first hand how much he loves you, Sam," she whispered. "Nothing that happens here will change that."

"We were gonna stop hunting," Sam whispered between stifled sobs. "Move to Maine and build a life together."

Bobby turned toward the window, staring out into the darkness and shaking his head.

"You can still have all that," Mia assured Sam. "But only if Dean sticks around. I'm so sorry that it has to be this way."

Sam nodded in agreement. He didn't like it, but he knew she was right. And as much as he wished he could blame Mia, he knew it wasn't really her fault, at least not Dean's crossroads deal. And Sam was no stranger to rebelling against one's father. He could hardly judge her for that. He reached up to his shoulder and held her hand, appreciating the gentle comfort that she offered. His other hand kept hold of Dean.

"I'm sorry to break up this touching family moment," Bobby muttered almost inaudibly. "But the thickening spell I put around the motel isn't gonna last much longer."

Sam released Mia's hand, unable to look Bobby in the eye. "So how does this happen?"

"Dean has to be awake," Mia said.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then nodded his head. "It'll have be quick, then. Who knows when the next vision is going to strike?"

"You're right about that," Mia agreed.

"He's not going to give in easily," Sam added. "He might even get violent. And obviously we don't have the advantage of explaining to him what the hell is really going on."

"I think I know what to do about that. May I?"

She reached for Sam's head and he nervously bent toward her, grimacing as she quickly plucked a strand of his hair. Then she opened a small locket hanging from a chain around her neck, placing the hair inside and snapping it shut. Then she closed her eyes and became very still.

Neither Bobby nor Sam was sure exactly when the change happened, but one second they were staring at Mia and the next... they were staring at Sam.

"Holy God," Bobby wondered.

"Mia?" Sam asked unsurely.

"Yes," Mia answered back with Sam's deep voice. "I think we might have a better shot this way."

"Oh, that does it," Bobby cracked, picking up his bag from the table and hoisting it over his shoulder. "This is just too much. I can't stay for this. Come on, Sam. Let's go see if the vending machines have vodka."

"No," Sam stated.

"You can't seriously want to stick around for this... this _sickness!_" Bobby flared in disbelief.

Sam turned a cold eye on Bobby and stood up resolutely. "I will not leave my brother, Bobby. Not ever. So if that makes me sick... then I guess I'm sick."

"For as long as I live, I will never understand what has happened between you boys. What brought you to this. I will _never_ understand it, Sam."

A lump rose in Sam's throat at Bobby's disapproval, but he swallowed it down and held his stare. "We never asked you to understand it, Bobby."

Bobby spared another look at Sam and Dean and... Sam. Then he shook his head and cut a line in the salt with his foot so that he could open the door. "If your father were alive to see this day..." he breathed on his way out. And then he was gone.

Mia crossed to the door to restore the salt line as Sam fought against more tears. Bobby's disgust with him wasn't quite as painful as his father's would have been, but it was damn close. Sam's recent argument with Dean replayed in his mind, the argument where Sam had accused Dean of being ashamed of their relationship. He could only imagine how Dean would have reacted if he had been conscious for this conversation with Bobby.

"Just give him time, Sam," Mia said. Sam was relieved to hear her speaking in her own voice again as she had returned to her natural form. "He'll come around."

Sam shook his head sadly. "I really don't think he will. Why should he? It is kind of sick when you think about it."

Mia put a hand on Sam's face. "Love isn't sick, Sam."

He looked back at her doubtfully, but didn't argue. "Do you have the antidote?"

Mia nodded. "I mixed in some relaxants to make it easier on Dean. He'll be conscious but he won't be totally with it."

"Great. So we're going to date rape my brother. Wonderful."

"Sam, you know it's the only choice we have. We're completely out of time."

"I know."

"If we don't act now, Dean will fall victim to the Tribe, the poison, or the visions."

"Or his own stubbornness."

"And in all of those scenarios..."

"He's dead."

"Yeah," Mia agreed.

Sam looked at her seriously, his face turning red as tears quickly welled up in his eyes and overflowed onto his cheeks. "Be good to him," he begged.

She touched his face again. "I promise," she replied.

* * *

Dean felt wonderful. Soft pillow under his head, soft mattress beneath his body, a soft haze of fuzzy candlelight dimly illuminating the room. He opened his heavy eyelids and breathed deeply, stretching out his lazy limbs. His body felt amazing. He wasn't sure why that surprised him, but it did.

Something was nagging at his mind, though. He felt like there was somewhere he needed to be or something really important he should be doing, but he couldn't remember what it was. Those thoughts were quickly banished from his mind, however, when he heard the familiar deep voice beside him saying, "Hey, big brother."

And then Sam was climbing on top of him, shirtless and beautiful, smiling down with such tenderness and warmth.

"Baby boy," Dean whispered, his heart leaping with joy. "I feel like I've been asleep for days. Where did you get that?" Dean fingered the square locket hanging from Sam's neck.

"Ssh," Sam put a callused fingertip on Dean's lips. "Don't worry about it. Everything is okay now."

"Really?" Dean asked drowsily.

"Yep. It's all over. It's just you and me."

"Forever?" Dean added with childlike hopefulness.

"Forever and ever," Sam assured him, kissing him gently on the lips, eliciting soft cooing noises from deep within Dean's throat.

"It breaks my heart how much I love you," Dean whispered, running his hands down Sam's sides toward the waistband of his jeans, fingers shyly exploring the soft skin of Sam's ass.

"Will you do something for me, Dean?" Sam asked, licking Dean's neck.

"I'll do anything for you, sweet boy."

"Make love to me?"

Sam lifted his head to gaze into his brother's eyes again questioningly. His face was distorted through the happy tears filling Dean's eyes, and he blinked them away, squeezing Sam's shoulders tightly.

"For the rest of my life," Dean answered.

* * *

Sam found Bobby at the end of the second floor walkway, standing against the guardrail with a flask in one hand and a soda can in the other. He was looking solemnly out over the parking lot, and he didn't look up as Sam approached.

"Couldn't handle it after all," Bobby noticed.

"Diet Coke?" Sam attempted with a nervous smile. "You trying to lose weight?"

"Doc says I have high blood sugar," Bobby mumbled in response.

Sam sighed. He should have known this wouldn't be easy. He looked up at the stars, all of them a sickly shade of yellow through the mystical force field Bobby had placed around the motel.

"This is pretty impressive mojo," Sam observed.

"You boys are in pretty impressive trouble," Bobby agreed. "I gotta have a few big tricks up my sleeve for days like this."

A long silence ensued, filled only by the distant drums, distorted through the force field, as though they were pounding underwater. Sam felt seasick.

"Can I have some of that?" Sam almost whispered, nodding at the flask.

Bobby pursed his lips, hesitating.

"Oh, for God's sake, Bobby, I don't have cooties."

Bobby finally made eye contact with Sam, only a hint of an apology in his stare, and he handed the flask to Sam who took a long drink. Bobby offered the soda as a chaser, but Sam shook his head.

"So..." Bobby began. "I guess the girl will let us know when they're... um, when they're ready for us?"

Sam's eyes filled with tears, and he turned away.

"Lord, Sam, this whole thing is so damn out of control I don't even have the words to—"

"So shut up, then," Sam interrupted tersely, wiping his eyes. He hadn't meant to be so abrupt, but he truly couldn't handle a lecture right now.

"If your dad were here..."

"I know, Bobby. Don't you think I know?"

"I can only imagine how the guilt is weighing on your brother. I can count on one hand the number of times he's disobeyed your father. And _this—_"

"Are you trying to piss me off?" Sam snapped.

"Sam, I'm just trying to understand."

"Well, do it on your own time."

"My apologies," Bobby snarked. "Should I _not_ have saved your sorry asses tonight?"

"I'm not saying I'm not grateful," Sam back-pedaled.

"So what are you saying?" Bobby pressed.

Sam shrugged his shoulders, his lips curling down at the ends. "We're not doing anything wrong," he insisted quietly.

"What makes me think you and Dean have been telling yourselves that a lot lately?"

Sam folded his arms defensively. He detested these feelings of embarrassment and shame. He _knew_ that what he and Dean had together wasn't wrong, that it was so very much the opposite of bad. But Bobby's knowing about it changed things, and Sam couldn't deny that. And if this conversation was uncomfortable for him, he could only imagine how Dean would handle it when he was well enough to talk.

"What's next?" Bobby asked.

"Huh?"

"Assuming the insanity going on in that room works—"

"It _will_ work," Sam interjected.

"—what will you do next?"

Sam was unnerved by the question. In all of the rush and panic, he hadn't had time to think about anything beyond this night, beyond stopping Dean from remembering everything.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"You might want to think about it," Bobby said. "Even if Dean stops having visions, he's not going to forget the fact that he had them. And he's going to wonder why they stopped."

"I'm well aware of Dean's determination, Bobby..."

"Are you prepared to lie to him for the rest of your life?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"I'm just asking."

The far off sound of the drums picked up the pace, intensified, and with a final echoing thump, they came to a stop. The transparent energetic force field around the motel fell away of its own accord, releasing the stars above to shine as they normally do, and a shiver went down Sam's spine.

"Did you do that?" he asked Bobby.

Bobby shook his head with wide eyes.

_We're ready for you, Sam, _Mia's voice whispered within Sam's mind. Judging from Bobby's flinch, he heard it, too.

"Tell your sister she's not allowed to do that to me ever again," Bobby growled.

"Let's go!" Sam darted down the hallway toward the stairs.

* * *

Sam burst through the door. Mia, back in her own body again, immediately stilled him with a hand on each of his shoulders. She spoke softly but insistently.

"He's not totally awake yet," she said. "He'll likely think that everything he just experienced was a dream."

Sam nodded and pushed past her to his brother's bedside. Dean's eyes were closed, but he had a sweet smile on his lips. His bare shoulders peeked out from underneath the blanket, and Sam protectively pulled the comforter up to Dean's chin as he sat on the bed, pulling Dean's head into his lap. Bobby remained in the open doorway looking uncomfortable.

"Dean?" Sam asked nervously. Dean opened his eyes with some effort and with one look at Sam, his small smile turned into a brilliant display of teeth, his eyes shutting again in drowsy excitement. "Hey."

"Hey," Dean whispered happily.

"How you feeling?"

Dean shrugged with a yawn. "I don't know," he answered.

Sam chuckled. "I think you're doing just fine."

"Hmmm," Dean responded, falling back to sleep.

"It's done, then?" Bobby asked the room in general.

"It's done," Mia confirmed. "The drums stopped because the Tribe knew the instant that the visions returned to me. They'll be expecting me soon."

"Don't let us keep you," Bobby remarked coldly.

"Bobby..." Sam warned.

"It's okay, Sam. I played my part in this disaster. Bobby has a right to be unhappy."

"Mia, thank you," Sam said. "You saved Dean's life. Twice."

"We're family," she answered.

They shared a warm look as Bobby rolled his eyes dramatically in the background.

"Sam, I have to warn you," she continued. "The visions are gone, and they won't ever come back. But there are other means by which Dean could remember what I did for him, should he choose to pursue it."

"Other means?" Bobby asked.

"Magical means," Sam guessed.

"Yes," she nodded. "I've done everything I can. It's up to you now."

"I won't lose him again," Sam vowed. "Ever."

"I wish you both well," Mia said. "You know how to reach me." And then she left.

In Mia's absence the room became totally silent save for the soft sound of Dean's breathing. Sam's attention was focused on his sleeping brother, and Bobby's attention was focused on the floor. After a few moments, Sam looked up.

"Thank you, too, Bobby. I don't know what we would've done if you hadn't—"

"Sam, don't," Bobby choked.

"Are you okay?"

Bobby shook his head, his face tense with emotion. "No. No, I'm not."

Sam stared, waiting for Bobby to continue.

"Now that you're out of the woods and everything is back to norm—" Bobby stopped and cleared his throat. "Now that Dean is safe again... I'm going to go."

"Okay," Sam agreed.

Bobby paused. "I meant that I'm going to _go_, Sam. I'm taking off. I... We won't see each other again."

"Why not?" Sam asked, perplexed.

Bobby actually looked at Sam for the first time since returning to the motel room. He looked down at Dean, cradled in Sam's lap. He looked at Sam's fingers absently stroking Dean's hair. He took a deep breath.

"I love you two like you were my own sons," he told Sam with a tremor in his voice. "That won't ever change. But I can't... This is just too much, Sam."

"So..." Sam's mouth hung open looking for the words. "So you're just never going to talk to us again?"

"I'm sorry."

"Bobby, please..."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry. I just can't."

Bobby walked out and closed the door behind him without giving Sam a chance to argue further. Sam's eyes immediately glossed over with fresh tears, and his face became hot with shame. He felt horrible knowing that Bobby disapproved of him so strongly.

"Don't cry, baby," Dean cooed, his eyes open once again. He reached up weakly and wiped a tear off of Sam's cheek. "I love you."

Sam caught Dean's hand and held it tightly against his face. "I love you, too, big brother. With all of my heart."

With that, Dean fell back to sleep.

* * *

"How you feeling?" Sam asked for the third time.

Dean sat across from him at the diner booth drumming his fingers on the table and staring vacantly out the window.

"Dean?"

"Fine."

"Your wounds?"

"Gone."

"Visions?"

"Gone."

"How is your head?"

"I'm _fine_, Sam," Dean trumpeted, startling several patrons in the restaurant who turned around to stare. He held up a hand of apology and returned his gaze to the landscape outside.

Sam sighed. He had wanted to get the hell out of town, but Dean insisted that they take a walk and have some breakfast. After the adventures of the night before, he needed some time to sort things out before taking off. Sam was terrified of what exactly it was that Dean needed to sort out, but he did his best to remain silent.

"Tell me again what happened last night?" Dean asked impatiently.

"Mia gave you a potion," Sam answered half honestly.

"And it healed my body."

"Yes."

"And you think that traveling through the energy vortex somehow stripped me of the visions."

Pause. "Yes."

"And Mia didn't know anything about how I'm not in hell right now."

Longer pause. "Dean, we've been through this ten times."

"And it makes less sense every time you say it," Dean responded. "Sam, there is only one way that a person can get rid of the Sight."

"Dean—"

"One way, Sam. There was no equivocation about that anywhere, not from the lore about it, not from the Tribe, not anywhere. And you're telling me we just happened to find the one loophole—"

"I don't know what to say, Dean," Sam sighed.

"The truth would be nice," Dean muttered too quietly for Sam to hear.

"What?"

Dean shook his head, stopping the conversation short. During their uncomfortable silence, the waitress came through and deposited their orders onto the table, two large plates of eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and two smaller plates with thick slices of wheat toast. Both boys found themselves nauseated at the sight of all of that food, and simultaneously pushed their plates away unhappily.

Sam watched the muscles in Dean's face flex as he clenched his jaw, his face turning slightly pink as his bottom lip trembled subtly.

"Did Bobby say anything else?" Dean croaked. "About us?"

Sam shook his head. "Maybe he'll come around. You know. Someday."

Dean's face turned from pink to red and he wiped a shaky hand over his mouth. "We both know he won't." He took a deep breath and whispered, "God _damn _it, Sam."

Whatever shame Sam had felt over Bobby knowing about their relationship, he could see Dean being tortured by it even worse. Dean had always cared about their father's approval more than Sam had, and for as long as they could remember, Bobby Singer was basically an extension of John Winchester. It hurt Sam to see Dean so humiliated. But it hurt even more to know that their relationship was the cause of his humiliation. Hesitantly, he reached across the table for Dean's hand.

Dean pulled away abruptly and waved to the waitress. "Can we get our check?"

* * *

Dean climbed into bed, and Sam dropped his pants, ready to crawl in after his brother.

"Wait," Dean grunted, holding up a hand to stop him.

"What?"

Dean's face contorted guiltily. "A lot's happened."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I just think... I need some space tonight."

The corners of Sam's mouth turned down involuntarily, and he swallowed. "Are you okay?"

Dean pursed his lips, eyes downward. "I just need some space, okay?"

Sam felt desperate, humiliated, and angry, but he was afraid to make things any worse. So he turned to the other bed, yanked the tightly tucked sheets and bedspread away from the mattress, and climbed in, promptly turning on his side to face away from Dean. He could almost feel Dean's apologetic look piercing the back of his head, and he silently hoped that Dean would feel guilty enough to change his mind. But he didn't.

The next thing Sam knew, the bedside lamp clicked off, and he heard Dean rustling down under his own blankets. Sam wanted so much to stay silent for the rest of the night. Hell, for the rest of the week, just to show Dean how much he had hurt him just now. Sam hated being the weak one, the one who always waved the white flag first, the one who always had to beg.

They had hardly spoken a word all day. After two bites of their breakfast, Sam had reluctantly followed Dean around to every tourist shop in the area, perusing guide books, Native American souvenirs, and even attempting to decipher several postcards for hidden meanings. Dean was decidedly obsessed with the Tribe, and he wasn't ready to leave town without finding out more about them and what they had to do with the cancellation of his crossroads deal.

To Sam's horror, he even heard Dean muttering Miakoda's name under his breath several times throughout their day, clearly trying to make her appear before them like she had the night before. Thankfully, Mia was either unable or unwilling to come.

And so, after their long day of silence, of Dean stubbornly avoiding eye contact or even the slightest brush of their shoulders as they walked side by side, it killed Sam to give in and appeal to Dean's sympathy. But he did it anyway.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't answer.

"I don't think we're going to find anything here."

Another blaring silence from the other side of the room.

"Can't we just be happy that you're free and leave it at that?" Sam tried again.

Apart from an irritated hitch in Dean's breath, he remained quiet. Sam spoke up one more time.

"Dean?"

"What." Dean said briskly.

Sam held his breath against the tremor of emotion threatening to reveal itself in his voice. Then: "Remember how you said that once we got you out of your deal, we could stop hunting and start our life together?"

Dean was silent for a very long time.

"Go to sleep, Sam."


End file.
